Silhouettes of American life

SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

SILHOUETTES OF
AMERICAN LIFE

BY

REBECCA HARDING DAVIS

NEW YORK

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
1892

COPYRIGHT, 1892,
BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS.

TO
R. H. D.

M12037

CONTENTS

PAGE

AT THE STATION 1

TlRAR Y SOULT . 21

WALHALLA 46

THE DOCTOR'S WIFE 07

ANNE 74

AN IGNOBLE MARTYR 92

ACROSS THE GULF Ill

A WAYSIDE EPISODE 145

MADEMOISELLE JOAN 172

THE END OF THE VENDETTA 193

A FADED LEAP OF HISTORY 218

THE TARES OF THE BLACK MOUNTAINS 239

MARCIA 269

vii

AT THE STATION

""VTOTHIXGr could well be more commonplace or
-L-^t ignoble than the corner of the world in which
Miss Dilly now spent her life.

A wayside inn, near a station on the railway which
runs from Salisbury, in North Carolina, up into the
great Appalachian range of mountains ; two or three
unpainted boxes of houses scattered along the track
by the inn; not a tree nor blade of grass in the
" clarin' " ; a few gaunt, long-legged pigs and chickens
grunting and cackling in the muddy clay yards ; be
yond, swampy tobacco fields stretching to the encir
cling pine woods. For Sevier Station lay on the
lowland; the mountains rose far to the west, like a
blue haze on the horizon. The railway ran like a
black line across the plain, and stopped at their foot
at a hamlet called Henry's; thence an occasional
enterprising traveller took " the team " up the precip
itous mountain road to Asheville, then a sleepy vil
lage unknown to tourists.

Nothing, too, could have been more commonplace
or ignoble than Miss Dilly herself: a pudgy old
woman of sixty, her shapeless body covered with a

I

2 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

scant, blue homespun gown, with a big white apron
tied about where the waist should have been ; a face
like that of an exaggerated baby, and round, innocent
blue eyes, which, when they met yours, you were sure
were the friendliest in the world. Miss Dilly always
wore a coarse white handkerchief (snowy white, and
freshly ironed) pinned about her neck, and another
tied over her ears, for she had occasionally a mysteri
ous paiu, commonly known to us as neuralgia, but
which the Carolinian mountaineers declare is only
caused by being " overlooked " by some one who has an
evil eye.

"They tell me it must be so," Miss Dilly would
say. " But, of course, my dear, it was done by acci
dent. Nobody would hurt a person thataway, meanin'
it. An' it's a mighty tarrible thing to have that kind
of an eye ! I hope the good Lord don't let any poor
soul know that he has it."

Miss Dilly had had this pain only since she had
lived in the lowland. It had almost disabled her.
She was born in the mountains — up on the Old Black
— and she fancied that if she could go back to them
she would be cured. But her younger brother, James,
owned this farm and inn, and when their mother died,
twenty years ago, he had agreed with Preston Ban-
that he should have both, rent free, if he would give
Dilly a home and the yield of one field of tobacco
yearly. James then set off to the West to make his
fortune. Letters at first came regularly. But it was
ten years now since she had heard from him.

Nobody ever heard a groan from Miss Dilly when
the attacks of pain came on.

AT THE STATION 3

" When the good Lord gives you a load to eahry, I
reckon 't ar'iit the clean thing to lay it on other folks'
shoulders," she would say, laughing. She shut her
self up, therefore, in her own chamber, and would let
nobody in, though everybody at the inn, from Squire
Barr himself to Sam (the black cook, ostler, and
chambermaid), besieged the door.

A gloom like that of a funeral overhung the whole
clarin' when Miss Dilly had one of her spells. After
the passing of the two trains a day it was the one
topic of interest.

"I've knowed wimmen as was younger," old Colonel
Koyall would say, solemnly wagging his head and
winking his bleared eyes ; " but Aunt Dilly is the
jokingest and most agreeable of her sex in this part
of Cahliny, to my thinkiii'."

" Yes," Squire Barr would answer, nodding gravely.
" And how any human fiend could lay the devil's look
on her, passes me ! "

When the attack was over she would come down,
pale and pinched about the jaws, but smiling, kissing
and shaking hands all round as if she had come back
from a long journey.

The Squire invariably addressed her with ponder
ous gravity, after this fashion :

" Ef it be so, Aunt Dilly, 's you think goin' back to
yer home on th' Old Black 'd give you ease, say the
wohd. I cahn't pay you rent in money, foh God-
amity knows, I've got none. But in traffic, tobacco,
cohn, an' millet — it'll be all sent up reg'lar. Though
what we'd do without you all, passes me ! "

At which Mrs. Missouri Barr would look at Miss

4 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

Dilly with tears on her gaunt cheeks, and the girls
would hang about her, patting her, and the Colonel
would declare with an oath that "the whole clarin'
had been powerful interrupted while you all was
gone.'7

These were the happiest moments of Miss Dilly's
happy life. She would explain carefully to them, for
the thousandth time, her feeling on the matter. " 'T
seems to me ef I was in the old place, faciii' Old
Craggy, '11 the Swanannoa a-runnin' past the door, '11
could go set by father 'n mother every mornin', whar
they're lyin' among the rowan trees, I'd get young
agin 'n lose this torment. But then, what 'd James
think ef he'd come back hyar ready to cahry me to
his home in Colorado or them furrin countries ? Me
gone, after my promise to wait ? 'N it would go hard,
too, to leave you, Preston, 'n Missoury, '11 the girls,
'11 Sam, '11 all — very hard ! "

The girls always surprised Miss Dilly with a good
supper on these recoveries, and the Colonel and Squire
Preston felt it their duty to go to bed drunker than
usual, in sign of joy.

At other times, life at Sevier -Station was stagnant
enough. Miss Dilly sewed or knit in her own roorn^
sitting at the window where she could see the six
men of the village sitting in a roAV in the gallery of
the inn, smoking. She called them her boys, and
when one chanced to have the rheumatism or tooth
ache or a snake-bite, clucked about him like an old
hen over an ailing chick. All the children in the
hamlet were free of her room : there was always one
at least with her, listening to her old Bible stories.

AT THE STATION 5

Neither they nor Miss Dilly were at all sure how far
exactly Palestine was from Carolina ; indeed, Dilly had
a dim conviction that the mountains on which her Lord
walked and suffered and died were part of the moun
tains yonder, which were all the world that she knew.

There was no church near the station; there were
not even the monthly " pra'ars " which keep up the
religious and social life of the mountains. Miss
Dilly with her Bible and her incessant innocent talk
of "the good Lord" was all the pope or preacher
known to these people, the oidy messenger sent to
show them how to live or to die.

In the morning the train passed the station, going
up to Henry's ; in the afternoon it came down ; it
halted for five or ten minutes each time. These brief
pauses were the end of life for the population of
Sevier Station ; the whole twenty-four hours merely
led up to them. When the train came in sight, the six
men, the women, children, pigs, and chickens dropped
the work they had in hand and waited, breathless.
It came up out of the great busy world and swept
down into it again — a perpetual miracle — leaving
them in silence and solitude. Miss Dilly was always
at her post by the window to see it go by. The con
ductor and engineer had learned to watch for the
wondering old baby face, and often threw to her a
little package of candy or a newspaper. Her heart
thumped with terror and delight as the wonderful
thing rushed past her. If she could only ride on
the cars once, only for a mile! This was the one
secret ambition of her life.

Sometimes, but very rarely, the train was belated

G SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

and stopped long enough, for the passengers to take
supper. Then excitement rose to fever height. Mrs.
Barr, the girls, Preston, even the Colonel were busy
in the kitchen, cooking, and scolding Sam. Miss
Dilly, who could do nothing, hurried to the parlor, in
fresh apron and handkerchiefs. It was a stuffy little
room with plaited rugs on the floor, a chromo of the
death-Led of Washington in a mica frame on the wall,
and a red-hot stove in the middle. The passengers who
were waiting for supper, to Miss Dilly 's mind, were
all dear good folk who had come up from the world
to talk to her awhile. She took the keenest interest
in them all ; nursed the babies, pulled out some candy
from her pocket for the children, ran for a drink for
the tired, dusty women, or sat listening eagerly to the
talk of the men, now and then asking a timid ques
tion. " And you really been at New Yohk, sah ?
Dear me ! I doan know what anybody thet has bin
at New Yohk wants to come to the mountings foh.
No, I nevah travelled. Much, that is. I was once at
Asheville, foh two days. I reckon New Yohk is dif-
ferint. But Asheville is a vehy large town, sah. You
suhtinly ought to visit it."

It was singular to see how they all, women, chil
dren, and men, seemed to understand Miss Dilly at
once, and treated her with a tender kind of respect.
She usually felt quite intimate with them all before
the evening was over, and when they entered the train
and were swept out of sight, would stand looking after
them, the tears in her eyes.

" The dear friends hardly come till they go again,"
she would say to the girls.

AT THE STATION 7

One stormy night in winter the train was delayed
two hours beyond its time. A child of one of the pas
sengers had been taken sick, near Henry's ; the train
was stopped, and a man who was said to have con
siderable skill in physic was sent for, two miles dis
tant. The passengers waited willingly. They were
in no hurry ; nobody in Carolina was ever in a hurry
in those days. Everybody was anxious to help the
baby, and proposed his own favorite remedy, brandy
being the most popular.

There were only two men in the car who did not
join the group about the sick child. They sat on a
back seat; one of them, a swarthy, middle-aged man,
with eyes like those of a stupid, affectionate dog,
stooping forward, listening eagerly to its moans and
the advice of the crowd.

"Poor little kid!" he said, earnestly. "I reckon
it's its head as is wrong. I had a boy once. He only
lived to be seven. It was the head as ailed him. The
brain, sah. Enormous ! Ef that little fellah had lived
he'd have made his mark in the world, alongside of
Alick Stephens."

" Died at seven ? " said his companion with an inar
ticulate murmur of sympathy. "Well, sah. Him
thet's above, He knows. It's all fob. the best."

" Not f oh me ; not f oh me ! " with a fierce growl,
after which he was silent. Presently he said : " Cap
tain, I used to quiet my boy a-strokin' of his temples.
Ef they'd try it on the baby — "

" I'm very sorry, Mr. Judson," said the other man,
with sudden gravity, "thet I cahn't let you try it
yohself . But duty, sah — ':

8 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

" I didn't think of doin' it myself ! " exclaimed Jud
son, angrily. " You don't suspect me of a trick ?
D'ye think I'm a sneak?"

" God forbid ! No, no, Mr. Judson. I know a high-
toned gentleman when I see him. When Sheriff Koyls-
ton give me this commission he says : ' Treat Mr.
Judson as a high-toned gentleman.' And as such I
recognized you. And as such I treated you."

Judson made no answer. He had dropped back into
his seat and pulled the wide-rimmed hat over his
brows.

The child by this time was asleep ; the passengers
crept softly back to their places, and the train was
again in motion. As, an hour later, it rushed along
through the gathering twilight, Judson glanced out of
the windows from side to side with a terrible appre
hension on his face.

" Isn't this the old Sevier plantation ? "

"Yes, sah. Consid'able altered since the railway
was laid."

After a few minutes Judson again broke the silence.
"Than was a house jest beyond the Branch hyah. JT
used to belong to a family named — Holmes."

"Yes. Station's nigh than now. Holmes house's
took as inn. Squire Barr's the proprietor, sah."

" Any of the Holmeses livin' tliah ? " asked Judson
in a tone which made Captain Foulke turn and look
at him curiously.

" Miss Dilly. She resides with the Squire. Colonel
James Holmes, he's gone out West thataway. I hear
as he's made a fortin out thah. So I've heered. I
never knowed Colonel James myself. I belong down

AT THE STATION 9

in the piny woods kentry. I've heered, though, as he
was a powerful agreeable gentleman. Very free an'
friendly. The folks hyahbouts think a heap of the
Colonel yet, though he's bin gone a good many year."

" Do they ? " said Judson, with a queer intonation.

"Friend of yours, may be?" asked the Captain,
curiously. Judson's back was turned toward him ; he
was staring out into the darkening fields. He did not
answer for a moment.

"No. He was no friend of mine," he said at last
in a tone which made Captain Foulke keep silent, lie
was the last man in the world to annoy or suggest un
pleasant subjects to Mr. Judson, or any other gentle
man who was in difficulty.

The engine gave a shriek. The conductor, who had
been dozing near the stove, got up, yawning.

" Sevier Station, gentlemen,'' he suggested mildly.
" Train stops liyali for supper."

The train ran bumping along the track and stopped.
The passengers rose and made their way out leisurely.
In the noise, they did not hear an altercation that was
going on at the back of the car. Judson had stiffened
himself back in his seat.

"My God! I cahn't get out hyah ! Tliali — than
are folks in tliet house thet know me." He panted
for breath with sheer terror ; his eye gleamed danger
ously. Foulke and the conductor stood over him anx
iously. For the first time the conductor saw that he
was handcuffed.

"Yes," explained Foulke rapidly, in a whisper.
" Bringiii' him to Raleigh from Tennessee, on riquisi-
tion from Governor, to stand his trial for manslaughter.

10 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

Mr. Judson!" raising his voice, "let me make you
acquainted with Captain Arny. Mr. Judson," he pro
ceeded in a hurried, deprecating tone, " lies come with
me clar from Nantahela range, whah I — wliali I-
met him, and has give me no trouble whatsoever. lie
has conducted himself like the high-toned gentleman
which Sheriff Koylston — "

" — I will make no trouble now," panted Judson.
" Only let me stay in the car. Foh God's sake,
Captain ! "

The deputy sheriff and conductor exchanged per
plexed glances.

"Come, come, Mr. Judson," said Arny, authorita
tively ; " Captain Foulke must have his supper ;n
somethin' warmin'. So must you. See liyah now ! "
wrapping the gray sliawl which was common in use
among men at that time about the prisoner so as to
conceal his arms, and pulling his hat well over his
brows. "Yoh own wife wouldn't know yoh, sah.
Come now. You can sit in the parlor if yoh doan
keer to take supper. On yoh parole, sah."

Judson hesitated, looking through the lighted win
dows of the inn with a terrified yet longing eye.
Figures moved dimly within.

" I'll go," he said, starting forward. " I'll sit tliali.
I'll not try to escape, so help me God."

^***^***

What with the sick baby and the tired mother,
Miss Dilly had much to do that evening. She soon,
however, had both of them comfortably disposed in
her own room for the night, and then hurried down
to see if any one else needed her.

AT THE STATION 11

" Why, Squire," she said, bustling into the kitchen,
"thah's a gentleman alone in the parloh, eatiu'
nothin'."

"He's ailin', Miss Dilly. Never mind him. He
(loan, want nothin'."

But Miss Dilly was not used to leave ailing people
alone. She made ready a steaming cup of tea.

"I'm so sorry yoh feelin' porely, sail," she said.
" Won't yoh take this, jest to warm yoh ? "

"No," said the man, gruffly. Miss Dilly, unused to
rebuff, stood hesitating. The lamplight shone full on
her gray hair and kind blue eyes.

"Don't go," said Judson. "'Stay with me. It will
only be for a few minutes. I'll never see you again."

Something in the voice startled the old woman.
She looked at him, raised her head, listening, and
then, recollecting herself, sat down, laughing.

" Thet's jest what I allus say to myself," she said.
" The folks come up hyah, 'n stay jest long enough
foil me to find they're dear friends, 'n go, '11 I never
see them again."

" And yoh're satisfied with sech friends as the cars
bring yoh every day ? " he sneered, savagely.

Miss Dilly drew herself up with a certain dignity.
" They're all my friends, as I said. But I have my
own people, sah, blood of my blood and bone of my
bone. The dear Lord sent them an' me into the world
together."

" Who are they ? " he said in a lower tone.

" Our family ? Thar's my brother, sah, Colonel
James Holmes. I'm waiting hyah for him now. I'm
expectin' him every day. An' my father '11 mother :

12 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

they're up on the Old Black. An' thah's a child in
our family," she added, with a proud rising of the
voice. " He's my brother's son. He is such a boy's
yoh never hear of now, sah. He was jest seven when
he — went away."

She turned her head, the tears creeping down her
withered cheeks.

The prisoner half rose, with a muttered exclama
tion.

" What's that ? Who — " cried Miss Dilly. " I beg
yoh pardon, sah, I thought I heard a name —

" What do you mean ? "

" Nothing — nothing. I thought yoh said a name
that I used to be called at home — mother an' Jem
an' all of them. I haven't heard it foh years. I
reckin it was talkin' of them made me fancy it. I'm
afeerd my mind's gettin' foolish study in' about Jem,
an expecti n' him."

" An' yoh think he'll come ? "

"I know it," said Miss Dilly, quietly. "Squire
P>arr, sometimes he says : ' Maybe the Colonel's mer-
ried a rich wife, in some of them big Western towns,
and hes done forgot us all.' An' the girls, I know
they're afeerd he's dead. But he'll come. Every day
since he went away I've asked the Lord to send him
back : so he — lies to come"

Judson did not speak for some time. His jaws
sank deeper in the mufflers about his neck. He said
at last:

"An' when he comes, I reckon yoh'd be pleased to
hear of the rich wife and grand house ? "

Miss Dilly winced. " Ef Jem's home is like thet,

AT THE STATION !.'>

it's all right. I'd go if he wants me. But what I've
thought I'd like — " She hesitated.

" What ? "

"Ef we could go back, jest our two selves to our
house ou the Old Black, an' him an' me live thah
together a few year before we went away — "

The man's head dropped on his chest. He was so
still that she jumped to her feet, frightened.

"Yoh're very porely! I'll bring something — I've
gum camphor in a jar of whiskey — " She laid her
hand on his arm.

At that moment the passengers came in from sup
per, Arny and Captain Foulke, who had kept their
eyes on the prisoner through the open door, fore
most. They thrust themselves between him and Miss
Dilly.

" Come, Mr. Judson, take somethin' warmin'."

They talked loudly, bustling about him, that she
might not see the handcuffs. The passengers crowded
out of the door, going to the train.

Judson with a fierce gesture motioned the men
aside. "I must speak a word to her." He crossed
the room to where Miss Dilly stood.

"Doan yoh git tired prayin' foh him! For God's
sake doan git tired ! An' maybe he kin come back ! "

. . . The train was gone, and Miss Dilly went about
her work, stupefied. Why had she talked of Jem and
his boy to this man? She never spoke of them to
strangers. It seemed as if the good Lord had made
her do it to-night.

She prayed for her brother that night as she never
had prayed before. She did not know why she did it.

14 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

Nothing in this gruff stranger had reminded her of
saucy, affectionate Jem.

But when everybody in the inn was in bed and
asleep, she crept on to the porch and stood looking
out into the gray, fathomless night. Somewhere out
in that great unknown world — he was. He might be
in that grand house — he might be sick and starving
among beggars ; but wherever he was, he must come
back to her. Her childish, faithful soul went out in
an agony of supplication.

"Lord, bring him back to me. To me — me!"
The fog was thick and cold, and Miss Dilly was used
to the warmest corner of the house. But it seemed
to her that she must go out into the open wide night to
come nearer to him. He was there alive, needing her.
" Lord, bring him back to me," she cried.

#:**#**:*#

The people at the station noticed a change in Miss
Dilly after that night. She had always been kind,
but now she was tender to every living thing she could
reach, with the tenderness which a mother shows to a
sick child. She had always been cheerful, but now
she was breathlessly anxious to make every one about
her happy and merry.

" I reckon," said Colonel Royall, shaking his head,
" she's a ripenin' fur the end. The doors is openin'
an' the glory's a shinin' down on her."

An uneasy dread seized the station when this opin
ion was made known. Everybody whispered and kept
an anxious watch on Miss Dilly's coughs and appetite.
Mrs. Barr, who was a dribbling woman as to mind, at
last told her what they feared.

AT THE STATION 15

Miss Dilly laughed a sound, healthy laugh.

" It's not death at all that's comin', Missoury," she
said. " It's Jem ! The Lord isn't deaf. Nor hard
of heart. Neither lies he gone on a journey, as the
prophet says. He'll send my brother back to me. I'm
thinkin' of it continooally now. If one of you's sick,
I think — what if that was Jem ? An' I try to help
you. And if another one's downhearted, I think, what
if that was Jem ? An' I try to cheer him up. That's
the truth, Missoury. It isn't death, it's Jem."

" If the Lord shud go back on her after all ? " the
Squire muttered with bated breath when he heard this
report from his wife.

Summer came, and winter, and summer again, until
two years had gone by.

Judson had stood his trial and been convicted and
served out his brief term of imprisonment. On the
day that he received his discharge, the warden of the
prison, as usual, spoke a few kind words of warning
and counsel to the prisoner at parting. He was
startled when Judson, who was noted as a reticent,
gruff man, answered him formally :

" Sah, yoh're quite right. I'd been runnin' down,
steady, for ten year. Down. Sudden, one day, like
a flash of lightnin' across my path, I was made to
know of a woman — who shell be nameless hyah — who
lied loved me an' believed in me all my life. Thet
has made a different man of me. Sah, she's kep' a
holt on me ! She's tied me to God with her pra'ars !
I cahn't get loose ! " he cried with a nervous gulp in
his throat.

" Sah, I thank yoh foh yoh words. I'm goin' to her

16 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

to try to be the man yoh say. I'm goin' to trust to
her an' God to pull me through ! "

Before he left, the warden gave him more advice.
" Take your own name, Judson," he said. " I suspect
you are now under an alias. Say nothing to this
woman of your past life. Begin afresh where it is
not known, and — may God bless you, sah."

This was in October.

Christmas, that year, brought, as usual, a stir of
delightful excitement to the inn. Sevier Station knew
nothing of the high significance which modern thought
attaches to the great festival of the Christian Year.
It was the day, however, on which Colonel Koyall
sent, before breakfast, a bumper of foaming egg-nog
to every white man and woman in the clarin'. Every
negro who asked for it had " a warmin' " of whiskey at
the Colonel's expense. It was the day, too, on which
Squire Barr gave his annual tremendous dinner of
turkey and chicken pie, at which the six families of
the village all sate down together. Mrs. Missoury
Barr, also, made a practice of sending dishes of roast
pork and hominy, or 'possum stewed in rice and mo
lasses, or some such delicacy, to every negro cabin.
There was a general interchange of gifts : brier-wood
pipes, or pinchbeck scarf-pins, or cakes of soap in the
shape of dog's heads, all of which elegant trifles had
been purchased from travelling peddlers, months be
fore, and stored away for the great occasion. Miss
Dilly, you may be sure, was quite ready for Christmas.
Her locked drawer was full of socks and mufflers
knitted by herself, all of bright red, as "bein' more
cheerin'." Nobody was forgotten in that drawer,

AT THE STATION 17

from the Squire to the least pickaninny in the quar
ters.

There was a vague idea throughout the clarin' that
the day was one in which to be friendly and to give
old grudges the go-by: the Lord (with whom Aunt
Dilly was better acquainted than the rest) was sup
posed, for some reason, to be nearer at hand on that day
than usual, though not so near as to make anybody
uncomfortable.

Father Ruggles, the jolly old Methodist itinerant,
was up in the mountains, and had sent word he was
coming down for his Christmas dinner.

" He'll ask a blessin' on the meal, thank Heaven ! "
said Mrs. Missoury, with a devout sigh.

The Squire hurried with the news to find the
Colonel.

"It'll be a big occasion," he said, triumphantly.
" Father Buggies '11 be equal to a turkey himself. I
depend on you foh makin' de coffee, Colonel. Sam's
that eggsited now he doan know what he's about."

" Suhtenly, suhtenly ! But really, Mrs. Missoury 'd
better double de supply of mince-pie," he suggested,
anxiously. " Father Kuggles is taerible fond of mince."

Preparations went on with increasing force and vigor.
They reached full completion the day before Christ
mas. Then the station paused to take breath before
the great event.

Father Ruggles arrived at noon, and in five minutes
had shaken hands with everybody, black and white,
and put them all in good humor with him, them
selves, and each other.

" A doan like Miss Dilly's looks," he said, lowering

18 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

his voice, when he and the Colonel and Squire were
seated together in high conclave on the gallery. " She's
blue 'n peaked about the jaws. Old age, heh ? "

" Not a bit of it ! " rejoined Preston, quickly. " She's
a young woman, comparatively. It's Jem. Colonel
James. She's done tired out waitin' on that man.
These last two year she's took to expectin' him every
day. She watches the train night 'n morriin'. It 'ud
make yoh sick to see her old face when it goes by."

"Natuhlly," the Colonel struck in pompously, "we
want to make Miss Dilly happy to-morrow, long o' the
rest. She doan forget none of us in her knittin's an
buyin's, I'll warrant ! I says to the Squire hyah,
' Suppose de clarin' corn-bine, '11 buy somethiii' wuth
while — a cheer or new calico or somethiii'.' But he
says, ' Whah's de use ? ' he says, ' she wants nothin'
but her brother. Kin we give her her brother ? ' So
thah's how it is ! " filling his pipe with a gloomy nod.

The men glanced furtively at Miss Dilly, who, in
her blue gown and white apron, stood in the yard
below, feeding a noisy flock of chickens.

The sun going down through a frosty sky threw red
lights upon the vast white plains and the cluster of
little gray houses huddled closely together. Their
hoods of feathered, crusted snow made them almost
picturesque.

Across the road came a black, paunchy figure. It
was Nutt, the carpenter, who kept the post-office in a
box in his shop.

"What ails Jabez ? " wondered the Colonel. " Some-
thin's happened."

Nutt hurried up the steps. " Mail's in, gentlemen.

AT THE STATION' 19

Two circuelars an' this letter. Foh Miss Billy. I
just run over with it ; I thought —

" Quite right, quite right ! " exclaimed Father Rug-
gles. " It may be — "

The men all rose in their excitement. " Do you
give it to her, Squire," said the old minister. "You've
been her best friend."

Miss Dilly came up the steps. The Squire handed
her the letter without a word. His red, pudgy face
fell into queer grimaces as lie watched her.

" Foh me ! A letter ! Foh — ? "

The blood stopped in her old body as she took it,
smiling but very pale. When she saw the writing on
the envelope she turned and went to her own room
and shut the door.

The news spread. In ten minutes the whole clarin'
was gathered 011 the gallery.

"It may not be from Colonel James at all," sug
gested Jabez. " It may be on business."

" Business ! Doan be an ass, Jabez Nutt," said the
Colonel.

The station waited breathless.

She came out at last, her face shining with a great
inward peace.

" Jem," she said to them in a low, quiet voice, " has
gone back to our house on the Old Black, an' put it
an' the farm to rights, an' him an' me is to live thah
together. He's comin' to-night on the train."

Nobody spoke. The tremendous tidings took their
breath.

« An' — an' when is yoh a-goin', Miss Dilly ? "
gasped Sam, who was the first to recover.

20 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

"Not jest right away. He'll stay hyah a week, to
see his old friends," she said. "An' — thah's the
train!" Then she broke down and began to tremble
and cry. The women gathered about her and cried
too, while they smoothed her hair and re-pinned her
handkerchiefs.

The men hurried down to meet the train.

" What an occasion to-morrow'll be ! " panted Squire
Barr. "It's nothin' short of providential that the
Colonel shud come on this Christmas. Father Ilug-
gles hyah 'n all. The station kin give him a suitable
reception. Ef the turkeys only hold out ! I count on
you foli the coffee, Roy all."

"You kin. But it isn't victuals I'm keeriii' foh,
sah," said the Colonel, with a quaver of genuine feel
ing in his voice. " It's thet pore soul yonder. God-
amighty lies sent her her Christmas gift, shore. Hyar's
the train, gentlemen ! "

It rolled up the track — stopped.

A short, heavy man, with gray hair and a kind,
resolute face, came out on the platform.

" Thet's him ! Thet's Jem ! " shouted the Colonel.
Then they all broke into a rousing cheer, pressing
round him, waving their hats, and shaking his hand*
after the hearty Southern fashion.

" She's up thah, Colonel," said the Squire. " Go
right away up, sah. She's been waitin' a long time."

TIRAR Y SOULT

"OOBERT KNIGHT, who was born, bred, and
-L u trained in New England, suckled on her creeds
and weaned on her doubts, went directly from college
to a Louisiana plantation. The change, as he felt,
was extreme.

He happened to go in this way. He was a civil
engineer. A company was formed among the planters
in the Gulf parishes to drain their marshes in order
to establish large rice-farms. James B. Eads, who
knew Knight, gave his name to them as that of a
promising young fellow who was quite competent
to do the simple work that they required, and one,
too, who would probably give more zeal and time
to it than would a man whose reputation was assured.

After Mr. Knight had thoroughly examined the
scene of operations, he was invited by the president
of the company, M. de Fourgon, to go with him to his
plantation, the Lit de Fleurs, where he would meet
the directors of the company.

" The change is great and sudden," he wrote to his
confidential friend, Miss Cramer. "From Boston to
the Bed of Flowers, from the Concord School of

21

22 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

Philosophy to the companionship of ex-slave-holders,
from Emerson to Gayarre ! I expected to lose my
breath mentally. I expected to find the plantation
a vast exhibit of fertility, disorder, and dirt ; the men,
illiterate lire-eaters; the women, honris such as our
fathers used to read of in Tom Moore. Instead, I
find the farm, huge, it is true, but orderly ; the corn
fields are laid out with the exact neatness of a Dutch
garden. The Sugar Works are run by skilled German
workmen. The directors are shrewd and wide-awake.
Madame de Fourgon is a fat, commonplace little
woman. There are other women — the house swarms
with guests — but not an houri among them. Till
to-morrow. K. K."

The conclusion was abrupt, but Knight had reached
the bottom of the page of his writing-pad, lie tore
it off, put it in a business-envelope, and mailed it.
He and Miss Cramer observed a certain manly dis
regard to petty conventionalities. He wrote to her
on the backs of old envelopes, scraps of wrapping-
paper, anything that came first to hand. She liked
it. He was poor and she was poor, and they were
two good fellows roughing it together. They de
lighted in expressing their contempt for elegant nick-
nackery of any sort, in dress, literature, or religion.

" Give me the honest — the solid!" was Emma
Cramer's motto, and Knight thought the sentiment
very high and fine. Emma herself was a little per
son, with an insignificant nose, and a skin, hair, and
eyes all of one yellowish tint. A certain fiumness
and piquancy of dress would have made her positively
pretty. But she went about in a tightly fitting gray

TIRAR Y SOULT 23

gown, with a black silk handkerchief knotted about
her neck, and her hair in a small knob on top.

But, blunt as she was, she did not like the blunt
ending of this letter.

What were the women like who were not houris ?
He might have known that she would have some curi
osity about them. Had they any intellectual training
whatever ? She supposed they could dance and sing
and embroider like those poor things in harems —

Miss Cramer lived on a farm near the Massachu
setts village of Throop. That evening, after she had
finished her work, she took the letter over to read to
Mrs. Knight. There were no secrets in any letter to
her from Robert which his mother could not share.
They were all intimate friends together, Mrs. Knight
being, perhaps, the youngest and giddiest of the three.
The Knights knew how her uncle overworked the girl,
for Emma was an orphan, and dependent on him.
They knew all the kinds of medicine she took for her
dyspepsia, and exactly how much she earned by writ
ing book-reviews for a Boston paper. Emma, too,
could tell to a dollar what Robert's yearly expenses
had been at college. They had all shared in the
terrible anxiety lest no position should offer for him,
and rejoiced together in this opening in Louisiana.

Mrs. Knight ran to meet her. " Oh, you have had
a letter, too ? Here is mine ! "

She read the letter with nervous nods and laughs
of exultation, the butterfly-bow of yellow ribbon in
her cap fluttering as if in triumph. Emma sat down
on the steps of the porch with an odd, chilled feeling
that she was somehow shut out from the victory.

24 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

" The l Bed of Flowers ' ? What a peculiar name
for a farm ! And how odd it was in this Mr. de Four-
gon to ask Robert to stay at his house ! Do you sup
pose he will charge him boarding, Emma ? "

"No, I think not."

" Well, Robert will save nothing by that. He must
make it up somehow. I wouldn't have him under
obligation to the man for his keep. I've written to
him to put his salary in the Throop Savings Bank till
he wants to invest it. He will have splendid chances
for investment, travelling over the country — East,
West, South — everywhere! House full of women?
I hope he will not be falling in love in a hurry.
Robert ought to marry well now."

Miss Cramer said nothing. The sun had set, and a
cold twilight had settled down over the rocky fields,
with their thin crops of hay. To the right was Mrs.
Knight's patch, divided into tiny beds of potatoes,
corn, and cabbage. As Emma's eyes fell on it she
remembered how many years she had helped the
widow rake and weed that field, and how they had
triumphed in every shilling which they made by the
garden-stuff. For Robert — all for Robert !

Now he had laid his hand on the world's neck and
conquered it ! North and West and that great tropical
South, with its flowers and houris — all were open to
him ! She looked around the circle of barren fields.
He had gone out of doors, and she was shut in !

Mrs. Knight was watching her with her vague gray
eyes. She felt a certain pity for the girl. " Take a
rose, Emma," she said, plucking one which was a
little worm-eaten.

TIRAR Y XOULT 25

Emma thanked her, bade her good-night, and went
down the darkening road homeward. She looked at
the rose, laughed, and threw it away. What a fool
she was ! The fact that Robert had a good salary
could not change the whole order of the world in a
day. Her comradeship with Knight, their plans, their
sympathy — this was the order of the world which
seemed eternal and solid to poor Emma.

"I am his friend," she told herself now. "If he
had twenty wives, none of them could take my
place."

Now, Knight had not hinted at the possibility of
wiving in his letter. There had never been a word or
glance of love-making between him and Emma ; yet
she saw him, quite distinctly now, at the altar, and
beside him a black-eyed houri.

She entered the farm-house by the kitchen-way.
There was the cold squash pie ready to cut for break
fast, and the clothes dampened for ironing. Up in
her own bare chamber were paper and ink and two
books for review — " Abstract of Greek Philosophy "
and " Sub-drainage."

These reviews were one way in which she had tried
to interest him. Interest him! Greek philosophy!
Drainage !

She threw the books on the floor, and, running to
the glass, unloosened her hair and ran her fingers
through it, tore the handkerchief from her neck,
scanned with a breathless eagerness her pale eyes, her
freckled skin, and shapeless nose, and then, burying
her face in her hands, turned away into the dark.

26 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

The night air that was so thin and chilly in Throop
blew over the Lit cle Fleurs wet and heavy with the
scents, good and bad, of the Gulf marshes. Madame
de Fourgon's guests had left the supper-table, and were
seated on the low gallery which ran around the house,
or lounged in the hammocks that swung under the
huge magnolias on the lawn. There were one or two
women of undoubted beauty among them ; but Robert
Knight was not concerned, that night, with the good-
or ill-looks of any woman, either in Throop or Louisi
ana. He was amused by a new companion, a Monsieur
Tirar, who had ridden over from a neighboring plan
tation. Knight at first took him for an overgrown
boy ; but on coming close to him, he perceived streaks
of gray in the close-cut hair and beard.

Tirar had recited and acted a comic story, after
dinner, at which the older men laughed as at the
capers of a monkey. While they were at cards he
played croquet with the children. The women sent
him on errands. " Jose', my thimble is in the library ! "
" Jose, do see where the nurse has taken baby ! " etc.

A chair had been brought out now for M. de Four-
gon's aunt, an old woman with snowy hair and deli
cate, high features. Jose flew to bring her a shawl
and wrapped it about her. She patted him on his fat
cheek, telling Knight, as he capered away, how invalu
able was the clier enfant.

"He made that Creole sauce to-day. Ah, the petit
gourmand has many secrets of crabs and soups. He
says the chefs in Paris confide in him, but they are
original, monsieur ; they are born in Jose's leetle
brain" —tapping her own forehead.

TIE All Y SOULT 27

" All, hear him now ! 'Tis the voice of a seraph ! "
She threw up her hands, to command silence in earth
and sky ; leaning back and closing her eyes, while the
little man, seated with his guitar at the feet of a
pretty girl, sang. Even Knight's sluggish nerves
were thrilled. He had never heard such a voice as
this. It wrung his heart with its dateless pain and
pathos. Ashamed of his emotion, he turned to go
away. But there was a breathless silence about him.
The Creoles all love music, and Jose's voice was
famous throughout the Gulf parishes. Even the
negro nurses stood staring and open-mouthed.

The song ended and Tirar lounged into the house.

" Queer dog ! " said M. de Eourgon. " He will not
touch a guitar again perhaps for months."

" He would sing if I ask it," said the old lady. " He
has reverence for the age."

M. de Fourgon, behind her, lifted his eyebrows.
" Jose," he said, aside to Knight, " is a good fellow
enough up here among the women and babies j but
he has had the jeunesse orageuse : with his own crew,
at the St. Charles, there is 110 more rakehelly scamp
in New Orleans."

" Is he a planter ? " asked the curious New Eng-
lander.

Madame Bessaix's keen ears caught the question.

" Ah, the poor lad ! he has no land, not an acre !
His father was a Spaniard, Ruy Tirar, who married
Bonaventura Soult. The Soult and Tirar plantations
were immense on the Bayou Sara. Jose's father
had his share. But crevasse — cards — the war — all
gone ! " — opening wide her hands. " When your gov-

28 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

eminent declared peace, it left our poor Jose, at
twenty, with the income of a beggar."

"But that was twenty years ago," said Knight.
" Could he not retrieve his fortune by his profession
— business ? What does he do ? "

" Do ? do ? " — she turned an amazed, perplexed
face from one to the other. " Docs he think that
Jose shall work ? Jose ? Mon Diau ! "

" Tirar," said M. de Fourgon, laughing, " is not pre
cisely a business man, Mr. Knight. He has countless
friends and kinsfolk. We are all cousins of the Tirars
or Soults. He is welcome everywhere."

" Oh ! " said Knight, with a significant nod. Even
in his brief stay in this neighborhood, he had found
other men than Jose living in absolute idleness in a
community which was no longer wealthy. They were
neither old, ill, nor incapable. It was simply not their
humor to work. They were supported, and as care
fully guarded as pieces of priceless porcelain. It is a
lax, extravagant feature of life, as natural to Louisi
ana as it is impossible to Connecticut.

It irritated Knight, yet attracted him, as any nov
elty does a young man. He turned away from his
companions, and sauntered up and down in the twi
light. To live without work on those rich, prodigal
prairies, never to think of to-morrow, to give without
stint, even to lazy parasites — there was something
royal about that. It touched his fancy. He had
known, remember, nothing but Throop and hard work
for twenty-two years.

The air had grown chilly. Inside, M. Tirar had
kindled a huge fire on the hearth. He was kneeling,

TIRAR Y SOULT 20

fanning it with the bellows, while a young girl leaned
indolently against the mantel, watching the flames,
and now and then motioning to Jos6 to throw 011
another log. The trifling action startled Knight
oddly. How they wasted that wood ! All through
his boyhood he had to gather and save every twig
and chip. How often he had longed to make one big,
wasteful fire, as they were doing now.

The young lady was a Miss Venn, who had been
civil to him. It occurred to him that she was the very
embodiment of the lavish life of this place. He did
not, then or afterward, consider whether she was beau
tiful or not. But the soft, loose masses of reddish
hair, and the large, calm, blue eyes, must, he thought,
belong to a woman who was a generous spendthrift of
life.

Perhaps Knight was at heart a spendthrift. At all
events, he suddenly felt a strange eagerness to become
better acquainted with Miss Venn. He sought her
out, the next morning, among the groups under the
magnolias. There could be no question that she was
stupid. She had read nothing but her Bible and the
stories in the newspapers, and had no opinions about
either. But she confessed to ignorance of nothing,
lying with the most placid, innocent smile.

" l Hamlet ? ' Oh, yes ; I read that when it first
came out. But those things slip through my mind
like water through a sieve."

To Eobert, whose mind had long been rasped by
Emma's prickly ideas, this dulness was as a downy bed
of ease. Emma was perpetually struggling after prog
ress with every power of her brain. It never occurred

30 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

to Lucretia Venn to plan what she would do to-morrow,
or at any future time. In Throop, too, there was much
hard prejudice between the neighbors. To be clever
was to have a sharp acerbity of wit ; Emma's sarcasms
cut like a thong. But these people were born kind;
they were friendly to all the world, while in Lucretia
there was a soft affluence of nature which made her
the centre of all this warm, pleasant life. The old
people called her by some pet name, the dogs followed
her, the children climbed into her lap. Knight with
her felt like a traveller who has been long lost on a
bare, cold marsh and has come into a lire-lighted,
hospitable room.

One afternoon he received the card of M. Jose Tirar
y Soult, who came to call upon him formally. The
little fop was dazzling in white linen, diamond soli
taires blazing on his breast and wrists.

" You go to ride ? " he said, as the horses were
brought round. " Lucrezia, my child, you go to ride ?
It portends rain " — hopping to the edge of the gal
lery. " You will take cold ! "

" There is not a cloud in the sky," said M. de Four-
gon. " Come, Lucretia, mount ! Jose always fancies
you on the edge of some calamity."

" It goes to storm," persisted Tirar. " You must
wear a heavier habit, ma petite"

Miss Venn laughed, ran to her own room, and
changed her habit.

u What way shall you ride ? " Jose anxiously in
quired of Knight.

" To the marshes."

"It is very dangerous there, Monsieur. There are

TIRAR Y SOULT 31

herds of wild cattle, and slippery ground" — fuming
up and down the gallery. " Chut ! Tirar himself will
go. I will not see the child's life in risk — me ! "

Knight was annoyed. "What relation does Mon
sieur Tirar hold to Miss Venn ? " he asked his host,
apart. " He assumes the control of a father over her."

" He is her cousin. He used to nurse the child on
his knee, and he does not realize that she has grown
to be a woman. Oh, yes, the poor little man loves
her as if she were his own child ! When their grand
father, Louis Soult, died, two years ago, he left all his
estate to Lucretia, and not a dollar to Jose. It was
brutal ! But Jose was delighted. ( A woman must
have money, or she is cold in the world,' he said.
' But to shorn lambs, like me, every wind is tem
pered.' "

Mr. Knight was thoughtful during the first part of
the ride. "I did not know," he said, presently, to
young McCann, from St. Louis, a stranger like him
self, "that Miss Venn was a wealthy woman."

" Oh, yes, the largest land-holder in this parish, arid
ten thousand a year, clear, besides."

Ten thousand a year ! And Emma drudging till
midnight for two or three dollars a column ! Poor
Emma! A gush of unwonted tenderness filled his
heart. The homely, faithful soul!

Ten thousand a year? Knight would have been
humiliated to think that this money could change his
feeling to the young woman who owned it. But it did
change it. She was no longer only a dull, fascinating
appeal to his imagination. She was a power ; some
thing to be regarded with respect, like a Building

32 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

Association or a Pacific Railway. But for some unex
plained reason he carefully avoided her during the ride.
Miss Venn was annoyed at this desertion, and showed
it as a child would do. She beckoned him again and
again to look at a heron's nest, or at the water-snakes
darting through the edges of the bayou, or at a family
of chameleons who were keeping house on a prickly-
pear. Finding that he did not stay at her side, she
gave up her innocent wiles, at last, and rode on in
silence. M. Tirar then flung himself headlong into
the breach. He poured forth information about Louis
iana for Knight's benefit, with his own flighty opinions
tagged thereto. He told stories and laughed at them
louder than anybody else, l}is brown eyes dancing with
fun; but through all he kept a furtive watch upon
Lucretia, to see the effect upon her.

They had now reached the marshes which lie along
the Gulf. They were covered with a thin grass, which
shone, bright emerald, in the hot noon. The tide soaked
the earth beneath, and drove back the narrow lagoons
that were creeping seaward. A herd of raw-boned cat
tle wandered aimlessly over the spongy surface, doubt
ful whether the land was water, or the water, land.
They staggered as they walked, from sheer weakness ;
one steer fell exhausted, and as Lucretia's horse passed,
it lifted its head feebly, looked at her with beseeching
eyes, and dropped it again. A flock of buzzards in the
distance scented their prey and began to swoop down
out of the clear sky, flashes of black across the vivid
green of the prairie, with low and lower dips until they
alighted, quivering, on the dying beast and began to
tear the flesh from its side.

TIRAR Y SOULT ,'53

Jose rode them clown, yelling with rage. He came
back jabbering in Spanish and looking gloomily over
the vast, empty marsh. " I hate death anywhere, but
this is wholesale murder ! These wretched Cajans of
the marsh raise larger herds than they can feed ; they
starve by the hundreds. That poor beast is dead —
thanks be to God ! " After a pause. "Well, well ! " he
cried, with a shrug, "your syndicate will soon convert
this delta into solid ground, Mr. Knight; it is a noble
work ! Vast fortunes " — with a magniloquent sweep
of his arm — " lie hidden under this mud."

"Why don't you take a share in the noble work,
then?" asked McCann. "That is, if it would not
interfere with your other occupations ? "

"Me ? I have 110 occupations ! What work should
I do ? " asked Jose, with a fillip of his pudgy fingers.
Presently he galloped up to Miss Venn's side with an
anxious face.

" Lucrezia, my child, has it occurred to you that you
would like me better if I were doctor, or lawyer, or
something ? "

She looked at him, bewildered, but said nothing.

" It has not occurred to me" he went on, seriously.
" I have three, four hundred dollars every year to buy
my clothes. I have the Tirar jewellery. What more
do I want ? Everything I need comes to me."

"Certainly, why not?" she answered, absently, her
eyes wandering in search of something across the marsh.

" Then you do not mind ? " he persisted, anxiously.
"I wish my little girl to be pleased with old Jose*.
As for the rest of the world " — he cracked his thumb
contemptuously.

34 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

Miss Venn smiled faintly. She had not even heard
him. She was watching Knight, who had left the
party and was riding homeward alone. Jose fancied
there were tears in her eyes.

" Lucrezia ! "

No answer.

" Lucrezia, do not worry ! / am here."

"You! Oh, Mon Dieu! You are always here!"
she broke forth, pettishly.

Jose gasped as if he had been struck, then he reined
in his horse, falling back, while Mr. McCann gladly
took his place.

M. Tirar, after that day, did not return to the plan
tation. Once he met M. de Fourgon somewhere in
the parish, and with a sickly smile asked if Lucretia
were in good health. "Remember, Jean," he added,
earnestly, riding with him a little way, " / am that
little girl's guardian. If she ever marry, it is Jose
who must give her away. So ridiculous in her father
to make a foolish young fellow like me her guar
dian ! "

"Not at all! No, indeed! Very proper, Tirar,"
said M. de Fourgon, politely, at which Jose's face
grew still paler and more grave.

One day he appeared about noon on the gallery.
His shoes were muddy, his clothes the color of a
bedraggled moth.

"All, mon enfant!" cried Madame Dessaix, kindly,
from her chair in a shady corner. " What is wrong ?
No white costume this day, no diamonds, no laugh ?
What is it, Jose ? "

"Nothing, madame," said the little man, drearily.

TIRAR Y SOULT 3.)

" I grow old. I dress no more as a young man. I
accommodate myself to the age — the wrinkles."

" ' Wrinkles ' ? Bah ! Come and sit by me. For
whom is it that yon look ? "

" But — I thought I heard Lucrezia laugli as I rode
up the levee ? "

Madame Dessaix nodded significantly and, putting
her fingers on her lips, with all the delight that a
Frenchwoman takes in lovers, led him, on tip-toe, to
the end of the gallery and, drawing aside the vines,
showed him Lucretia in a hammock under a gigantic
pecan-tree. A mist of hanging green moss closed
about her. She lay in it as a soft, white bird in
a huge nest. Knight stood leaning against the trunk
of the tree, looking down at her, his thin face intent
and heated. He had spoken to her, but she did not
answer. She smiled lazily, as she did when the chil
dren patted her on the cheek.

" Voil<1 ! " whispered Madame Dessaix, triumphantly.
Then she glanced at M. Tirar, finding that he looked
011 in silence. He roused himself, with a queer noise
in his throat.

"Yes, yes! Now — what does she answer him?"

"Mdre de Dien! What can she answer? He is
young. He is a man who has his own way. He will
have no answer but the one ! We consider the affair
finished ! "

Tirar made no comment. He turned and walked
quickly down to the barnyard, where the children
were, and stood among them and the cows for awhile.
The stable-boys, used to jokes and picayunes from
him, turned hand-springs and sky-larked under his

30 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

feet. Finding that lie neither laughed nor swore at
them, they began to watch him more narrowly, and
noticed his shabby clothes with amazed contempt.

"J)oii Jose seek, ta-ta ! " they whispered. "Don
Jose, yo' no see mud on yo' clo'es ? "

But he stood leaning over the fence, deaf and blind
to them.

His tormentors tried another point of attack. "Don
Jose no seek, but his mare seek. Poor Chiquita !
She old horse now."

" It's a damned lie ! " Tirar turned on the boy with
such fury that he jumped back. "She's Mot old.
Bring her out ! "

The negroes tumbled over each other in tl ieir fright.
The little white mare was led out. Jose Kitted her
with trembling hands. Whatever great t xmble had
shaken him turned for the moment into tip's petty out
let.

" There is not such a horse in Attakapas ! " he mut
tered to himself. " I am old, but she is young ! " The
mare whinnied with pleasure as he stroked her and
mounted.

As he rode from the enclosure a clumsy bay horse
was led out of the stable. Knight came down the
levee to meet it. Jose" scanned it with fierce contempt.
" Ah, the low-born beast ! And its master is no other
wise ! But who can tell what shall please the little
girl?"

But Tirar could not shut his eyes to the fact that
the figure on the heavy horse was manly and fine. The
courage in his heart was at its lowest ebb.

" Jose is old and fat — fat. That is a young fellow —

T1RAR Y SOULT (ft

he is like a man ! " His chin quivered like a hysteric
woman's. The next minute he threw himseli' on the
mare's neek.

"I have only you now, Chiquita ! Nobody but

She threw back her cars and skimmed across the
prairie with the hoof of a deer. When he passed
Knight, M. Tirar saluted him with profound courtesy.

"Funny little man," said Robert to McCann, who
had joined him. "You might call him a note of ex
aggeration in the world. I>ut that is a fine horse that
he rides."

"Yes; a famous racer in her day, they tell me.
Tirar talks of her as if she were a blood-relation. I
wish we had horses of her build just now. That brute
of yours sinks in the mud with every step."

" It is deeper than usual to-day. 1 don't understand
it. We have had no rain."

They separated in a few minutes, Knight taking his
way to the sea-marshes.

The marshes were always silent, but there was a
singular, deep stillness upon them to-day. The sun
was hidden by low-hanging mists, but it turned them
into tent-like veils of soft, silvery brilliance. The
colors and even the scents of the marshes were oddly
intensified beneath them; the air held the strong
smells of the grass and roses motionless ; the lagoons,
usually chocolate-colored, were inky black between
their fringes of yellow and purple flags ; the countless
circular pools of clear water seemed to have increased
in number, and leaped and bubbled as if alive.

If poor Emma could but turn her eyes from the

38 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

barren fields of Throop to this strange, enchanted
plain !

He checked himself. What right had he to wish
for Emma ? Lucretia —

But Lucretia would see nothing in it but mud and
weeds !

Lucretia was a dear soul ; but after all, he thought,
with a laugh, her best qualities were those of an
amiable cow. That very day he had brought himself
to make love to her with as much force as his brain
could put into words, and she had listened with the
amused, pleased, ox-like stare of one of these cattle
when its sides were tickled by the long grass. She
had given him no definite answer.

Knight ploughed his way through the spongy prai
rie, therefore, in a surly ill-humor, which the unusual
depth of mud did not make more amiable. He was
forced to ride into the bayoux every few minutes to
wash the clammy lumps from the legs of his horse.

Where M. Tirar went that day, he himself, when
afternoon came, could not have told distinctly. He
had a vague remembrance that he had stopped at one
or two Acadian farm-houses for no purpose whatever.
He was not a drinking man, and had tasted nothing
but water all day, yet his brain was stunned and
bruised, as if he was rousing from a long debauch.
When he came to himself he was on the lower marshes.
Chiquita had suddenly stopped, planted her legs apart
like a mule, and refused to budge an inch farther.
What ailed this bayou ? It, too, had come to a halt,
and had swollen into a stagnant black pond.

Jose was altogether awake now. He understood

TIRAR Y SOULT 39

what had happened. A heavy spring tide in the Gulf
had barred all outlet for the bayoux, which cut through
the marshes. The great river, for which they were
but mouths, was already forcing its way over their
banks and oozing through all the spongy soil. There
was no immediate danger of his drowning ; but unless
ho made instant escape, there was a certainty that he
would be held and sucked into the vast and rapidly
spreading quicksands of mud until he did drown.

If Chiquita— ?

He wheeled her head to the land and called to her.
She began to move Avith extreme caution, testing each
step, now and then leaping to a hummock of solid
earth. Twice she stopped and changed her course.
Jose dismounted several times and tried to lead her.
But he soon was bogged knee-deep. He saAV that the
instinct of the horse was safer than his judgment, and
at last sat quietly in the saddle. At ordinary times
he would have sworn and scolded, and, perhaps, being
alone, have shed tears, for Jose" was at heart a coward
and dearly loved his life.

But to-day it was low tide in the little man's heart.
The bulk of life had gone from him with Lucretia.
His love for her had given him dignity in his own
eyes ; without her he was a poor buffoon, who car
ried his jokes from house to house in payment for
alms.

He did what he could, however, to save his life,
rationally enough — threw off his heavy boots, and
the Spanish saddle, to lighten the load on the mare,
patted her, sang and laughed to cheer her. Once, when
the outlook was desperate, he jumped off. "She shall

40 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

not die ! " he said, fiercely. He tried to drive her
away, but she stood still, gazing at him wistfully.

" Aha ! " shouted Jose, delighted, nodding to some
invisible looker-on. "Do you see that ? She will not
forsake me ! So, my darling ! You and Tirar will
keep together to the last." He mounted again.

Chiquita, after that, made slow but steady progress.
She reached a higher plateau. Even there the pools
were rapidly widening; the oozing jetty water began
to shine between the blades of grass. In less than
an hour this level also would be in the sea.

But in less than an hour Chiquita would have brought
him to dry ground.

Jose talked to her incessantly now, in Spanish,
arguing as to this course or that.

" Ha ! What is that ? " he cried, pulling her up.
" That black lump by the bayou? A man — no! A
horse and man ! They are sinking — held fast ! "

He was silent a moment, panting with excitement.
Then — "It is Knight!" he shouted. "Caught like
a rat in a trap ! He will die — thanks be to God ! "

If Knight were dead, Lueretia would be his own
little girl again.

The thought was the flash of a moment. Knight's
back was toward him. Jose, unseen, waited irresolute.

After the first murderous triumph he hoped Kobert
could be saved. Tirar was a coward, but at bottom he
was a man — how much of a man remained to be
proved. The longer he looked at the engineer, the
more he hated him, with a blind, childish fury.

" But I am not murderer — I ! " he said to himself,
mechanically, again and again.

TIRAR Y SOULT 41

Chiquita pawed, impatient to be off. The water
was rising about her hoofs. It sparkled now every
where below the reeds. Death was waiting for both
the men — a still, silent, certain death — the more
horrible because there was no fury or darkness in it.
The silvery mist still shut the world in, like the walls
of a tent; the purple and yellow flags shone tran
quilly in the quiet light ; overhead, the black, darting
buzzards swooped lower and lower. Tirar, seeing
them, gnashed his teeth.

Chiquita could save one man, and but one.

The Tirars and Soults had been men of courage
and honor for generations. Their blood was quicken
ing in his fat little body.

A thought struck him like a stab from a knife. "If
Knight dies, it will break her heart. But me ! " Then
he cracked his thumb contemptuously. " What does
she care for poor old Jose ? "

We will not ask what passed in his heart during the
next ten minutes.

He and his God were alone together.

He came up to Knight and tapped him on the
shoulder. "Hello! What's wrong?"

" I'm bogged. This brute of a horse is sinking in
the infernal mud."

" Don't jerk at him ! I'll change the horses with
you, if you are in a hurry to reach the plantation.
Chiquita can take you more quickly than he."

" But you ? — I don't understand you. What will
you do ? "

" I am in no hurry."

"This horse will not carry you. It seems to me
that the mud is growing deeper."

42 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

" I understand the horses and mud of our marshes
better than you. Come, take Chiquita. Go ! "

Knight alighted and mounted the mare, with a per
plexed face. He had begun to think himself in actual
danger, and was mortified to find that Jose made so
light of the affair.

" Well, good day, Monsieur Tirar ! " he said. " It
is very kind in you to take that confounded beast
off my hands. I'll sell him to-morrow if I can."
He nodded to Jose, and jerked the bridle sharply.
" Come, get up ! " he said, touching Chiquita with a
whip.

Jose leaped at him like a cat. "Damnation ! Don't
dare to touch her ! " — wrenching the whip from his
hand, and raising it to strike him. "Pardon, Mon
sieur," stiffening himself, " my horse will not bear a
stroke. Do not speak to her and she will carry you
safely." His hand rested a moment on the mare's
neck. He muttered something to her in Spanish, and
then he turned his back that he might not see her go
away.

Mr. Knight reached the upper marshes in about two
hours. He caught sight of a boat going down the
bayou, and recognizing M. de Fourgon and some other
men from the plantation in it, rode down to meet
them.

" Thank God, you are safe, Knight ! " exclaimed M.
de Fourgon. "How's that ? Surely that is Chiquita
you are riding ! Where did you find her ? "

"That queer little Mexican insisted that I should
swap horses with him. My nag was bogged, and — "

The men looked at each other.

TIRAR Y SOULT 43

" Where did you leave him ? "

" In the sea-marsh, near the mouth of this bayou.
Why, what do you mean ? Is he in danger? Stop !"
he shouted, as they pulled away without a word.
" For God's sake, let me go with you ! " lie left
Chiquita on the bank and leaped into the boat, taking
an oar.

"You do not mean that he has risked his life for
mine ? " he said.

"It looks like it," McCann replied. "And yet I
could have sworn that he disliked you, especially."

" The old Tirar blood has not perished from off the
earth," said M. de Fourgon, in a low voice. " Give
way ! Together now ! I fear we are too late."

The whole marsh was under water before they
reached it. They found Jose's body submerged, but
wedged in the crotch of a pecan-tree, into which he
had climbed. It fell like a stone into the boat.

M. de Fourgon laid his ear to his heart, pressed his
chest, and rose, replying by a shake of the head to
their looks. He took up his oar and rowed in silence
for a few minutes.

" Pull, gentlemen ! " he said, hoarsely. " The night
is almost upon us. We will take him to my house."

But Knight did not believe that Jose was dead.
He stripped him, and rubbed and chafed the sodden
body in the bottom of the boat. When they reached
the house, and, after hours of vain effort, even the
physician gave up, Knight would not listen to him.

" He shall not die, I tell you ! Why should his life
be given for mine ? I did not even thank him, brute
that I am ! "

44 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

It was but a few minutes after that, that he looked
up from his rubbing, his face growing suddenly white.
The doctor put his hand on Tirar's breast. " It beats ! "
he cried, excitedly. " Stand back ! Air — brandy ! "

At last Jose opened his eyes, and his lips moved.
" What is it, my dear fellow ? " they all cried, crowd
ing around him. But only Knight caught the whisper.
He stood up, an amazed comprehension in his eyes.

Drawing M. de Fourgon aside, he said : " I under
stand now ! I see why he did it ! " and hurried away
abruptly, in search of Miss Venn.

The next morning M. Tirar was carried out in an
easy-chair to the gallery.

He was the hero of the day. The whole household,
from Madame Dessaix to the black picaninnies, buzzed
about him. Miss Venn came down the gallery, beam
ing, flushed, her eyes soft with tears. She motioned
them all aside and sat down by him, stroking his cold
hand in her warm ones.

" It is me that you want, Jose ? Not these others ?
Only me ? "

"If you can spare for me a little time, Lucrezia ? "
he said, humbly.

She did not reply for so long that he turned and
looked into her face.

"A little time? All of the time," she whispered.

Jose started forward. His chilled heart had scarcely
seemed to beat since he was taken from the water.
Xow it sent the blood hot through his body.

"What do you mean, child?" he said, sternly.
"Think what you say. It is old Jose. Do you
mean — ? "

TIKAR Y SOULT 45

" Yes ; and I always meant it," she said, quietly.
"Why, there are only us left — you and me. And
Chiquita," she added, laughing.

%%•%•****%•

A week later Mrs. Knight received a letter from
Robert, with the story of his rescue. She cried over
it a good deal.

"Though I don't see why he thinks it such an
extraordinary thing in that little man to do ! " she
reflected. "Anybody would wish to save Robert,
even a wild Mexican. And, why upon earth, because
his life was in danger, he should have written to offer
it to Emma Cramer, beats me ! She hasn't a dollar."

Through the window, presently, she saw the girl
crossing the fields, with quick, light steps.

" She's heard from him ! She's coming to tell me.
Well, I did think Robert would have married a woman
of means, having his pick and choice — "

But the widow's heart had been deeply moved.
" Poor Emma ! She's been as faithful as a dog to
Robert. If she has no money, she will save his as an
heiress would not have done. Providence orders all
things right," she thought, relenting. "If that girl
has not put on her best white dress on a week-day !
How glad she must be ! I'll go and meet her, I guess.
She has no mother now, to kiss her, or say God bless
her, poor child ! " And she hurried to the gate.

WALHALLA

A FEW years ago a young English artist, named
-£JL- Reid, who was travelling through this country,
stopped for a day or two at Louisville, having found
an old friend there.

He urged this gentleman to go with him into the
mountainous region of Tennessee and North Carolina.

" The foliage," he said, " will be worth study in Sep
tember; and besides, I have an errand there for my
brother. He is a house-decorator in New York, and
when he was in the Alps last summer, he was told that
a wood-carver, whose work he once saw in Berne, and
fancied, had emigrated to America two or three years
ago, turned farmer, and joined a small German colony
in these mountains. I am to find this colony if I can,
and if there is any workman of real skill in it, to offer
him regular work and good wages in New York. My
brother is in immediate need of a panel-carver."

" He could have imported a dozen from Berne."

" Certainly," said Eeid, with a shrug ; "but Tom has

his whims. He fancied that he detected a delicacy, a

spirit in this man's work — an undiscovered genius, in

fact. His name, unfortunately, slipped Tom's mem-

46

WALIIALLA 47

ory. Where do you suppose the fellow is hidden,
Pomeroy ? Do you know of any such colony ? "

" No, and I hardly can believe that there are any
thrifty Germans among those impregnable mountains.
Why, access to many of the counties is only to be had
on mules, and at the risk of your neck. Your German
must have a market for his work ; he would find none
there."

They were talking in the breakfast room of the
hotel. A man at the same table looked up and nodded.

" Beg pardon, but couldn't help overhearing. Think
the place you want is in South Carolina. Name of
Walhalla. Village. Queer little corner. Oconee
county."

" Oh, thanks, much ! " said Reid, eying him specu-
latively, as probably a new specimen of the American.
"Any Swiss there, do you know ? "

" That I can't tell you, sir," said the stranger, ex
panding suddenly into the geniality of an old acquain
tance. " They're Germans, I take it. Shut out of the
world by the mountains as completely as if the place
was a 'hall of the dead,' as they call it. There it is,
with German houses and German customs, dropped
down right into the midst of Carolina snuff-rubbers,
and Georgian clay-eaters. I found the village five
years ago, while I was buying up skins in the moun
tains. I'm a fur dealer. Cincinnati. One of my
cards, gentlemen ? "

*******^

To Walhalla, therefore, Mr. Reid and his friend
went. They tried to strike a bee-line to it, through a
wilderness of mountain ranges, by trails known only

48 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

to the trappers 5 taking them as their guides, and
sleeping in their huts at night. After two weeks of
climbing among the clouds, of solitary communion
with Nature, of unmitigated dirt, fried pork, and fleas,
they came in sight of Walhalla.

They had reached Macon county, North Carolina,
where the Appalachian range, which stretches like a
vast bulwark along the eastern coast of the continent,
closes abruptly in walls of rock, jutting like mighty
promontories into the plains of Georgia.

Reid and Pomeroy stopped one morning on one of
these heights, to water their mules at a spring, from
which two streams bubbled through the grass and
separated, one to flow into the Atlantic, the other into
the Gulf of Mexico, so narrow and steep was the ridge
on which they stood. The wind blew thin and cold in
their faces ; the sun shone brightly about them ; but
below, great masses of cumulus clouds were driven,
ebbing like waves, out toward the horizon. Far down
in the valley a rain-storm was raging. It occupied but
small space, and looked like a motionless cataract of
gray fog, torn at times by yellow, jagged lightning.

Not far from the spring a brown mare was tethered,
and near it a stout young man in blue homespun was
lying, stretched lazily out on the dry, ash-colored moss,
his chin in his palms, watching the storm in the val
ley. An empty sack had served as a saddle for the
mare ; slung about the man's waist was a whiskey flask
and a horn. He was evidently a farmer, who had
come np into the mountains to salt his wild cattle.

Reid took note of the clean jacket, the steady blue
eyes, the red rose in his cap.

WALIIALLA 49

"Swiss/' he said to Pomeroy. "Where is Walhalla,
my friend ? "

The man touched his cap, and pointed to a wisp of
smoke at the base of the mountain. As they rode on,
his dog snuffed curiously at their horses' heels, but
Hans did not raise his head to look after them.

"That is the first man I have seen in America/'
said Eeid, "who took time to look at the world he
lived in."

When they were gone, Hans lay watching the cloud
below soften from a metallic black mass into pearly
haze ; then it drifted up into films across the green
hills. On the nearer plain below, he could now see
the white-boiled cotton-fields, wet and shining after
the shower; threads of mist full of rainbow lights
traced out the water-courses; damp, earthy scents
came up to the height from the soaked forests. After
a long while he rose leisurely, his eyes filled with sat
isfaction, as one who has had a good visit in the home
of a friend. He mounted the mare and rode down the
trail ; the sun shone ruddily on the peaks above him,
but there wras a damp, shivering twilight in the gorges.
Both seemed holiday weather to the young fellow ; his
mare whinnied when he patted her neck ; the dog ran,
barking and jumping upon him ; it was a conversation ;
that had been going on for years among old friends.

Mr. Eeid reached Walhalla just before sundown.
As his mule went slowly down the wide street, he
looked from side to side with pleased surprise.

"It is a street out of some German village," he
said. " I have not seen such thrift or homely com
fort in this country."

50 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

" It is only the sudden contrast to the grandeur and
dirt behind us," said Pomeroy. " If you miss the
repose and exaltation of the lofty heights which you
talked of, you will find scrubbed floors and flea-less
beds a solid consolation."

The sleepy hamlet consisted of but one broad street,
lined by quaint wooden houses, their stoops covered
with grape-vines or roses. Back of these houses
stretched trim gardens, gay with dahlias and yellow
wall-flowers ; back of these, again, were the farms.
Along the middle of the street, at intervals, were
shaded wells, public scales, a platform for town meet
ings. The people were gathered about one of the wells,
in their old German fashion, the men with their pipes,
the women with their knitting.

Reid remained in Walhalla for two or three days.
He found that there were several Swiss families and
that many of the men had been wood-carvers at home.
He hit upon a plan to accomplish his purpose. He gave
a subject for a panel, — the Flight into Egypt, — and
announced that any one who chose might undertake
the work ; that he would return in a month (he
had fo'ind there was access to Columbia by railway
through the valley), and would then buy the best
panel offered at a fair price, and, if the skill shown in
the work satisfied him, would send the carver to New
York free of expense, and insure him high and steady
wages.

On the day that he left, all the village collected
about the well to talk the matter over. Here was a
strange gust from the outer world blowing into their
dead calm ! Most of them had forgotten that there

W ALII ALL A 51

was a world outside of Walhalla. They tilled their
farms and bartered with the mountaineers. Twice a
year Schopf went to Charlotte for goods to fill his
drowsy shop. New York ? Eiches ? Fame ? The
blast of a strange trumpet, truly. The blood began
to quicken. Such of them as had been wood-carvers
felt their fingers itch for the knife.

"No doubt it is George Heller who will win it,"
everybody said. "That fellow has ambition to con
quer the world. Did you see how he followed the
Englishmen about ? He could talk to them in their
own fashion. George is no ordinary man ! "

"If Hans had but his wit now ! " said one, nodding
as Hans on his mare came down the street. "Hans is
a good fellow. But he will never make a stir in the
world. Now, George's fingers used to be as nimble as
his tongue."

Heller's tongue, meanwhile, was wagging nimbly
enough at the other side of the well. He was a little,
wiry, red-haired, spectacled fellow, with a perpetual
movement and sparkle about him, as if his thoughts
were flame.

" That's the right sort of talk. Fame — big profit !
Why should wre always drag behind the world here at
Walhalla? Plough and dig, plough and dig! The
richest man in New York left Germany a butcher's
son, with his wallet strapped on his back ; and what
is a butcher to an artist ? Just give me a foothold in
New York and I'll show you what a baker's son can
do, let Hans Becht laugh as he chooses ! " For Hans,
who had come down to the well, was listening with a
quizzical twinkle in his eye. He filled his pipe,

52 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

laughed, sat down and said nothing. Everybody knew
Hans to be the most silent man in Walhalla.

The pretty girls gathered shyly closer to Heller;
and the boys thrust their hands in their pockets and
stared admiringly up at him. Hans was their especial
friend, but what a stout, common-place creature he
was beside this brilliant fellow !

" A man only needs a foothold in this world ! "
George said, adjusting his spectacles and looking ner
vously toward a bench where a young girl sat holding
her baby brother. The child was a solid lump of flesh,
but she looked down at him with the tenderest eyes
in the world. The sight of her drove the blood through
Heller's veins almost as hotly as the smell of a glass
of liquor would do. "Oh, if I win, I'll take a wife
from Walhalla ! " he cried, laughing excitedly, looking
at her and not caring that the whole village saw his
look. " I'll come back for the girl I love ! " He fan
cied that the shy eyes had caught the fire from his
own and answered with a sudden flash.

Hans thought so, too; his pipe went out in his
mouth. When she rose to go home, he took the heavy
boy out of her arms, and walked beside her. Heller's
shrill voice sounded behind them like a vehement fife.

"Success . . . dollars . . . dollars!"

Hans looked anxiously down into her face.

"They are good things," she said; "very good
things."

Hans's tongue was tied as usual. He dropped Phil
in the cradle in the kitchen, and then came out and
led Christine down to the garden of his own house.

What was New York — money, to home ? Surely

WALHALLA 53

she must see that ! He led her slowly past the well-
built barn and piggeries, past the bee-hives hidden
behind the cherry -trees, and seated her on the porch.
He thought these things would speak for him. Hans
clung as closely to his home as Phil yonder to his
mother's breast. But Christine looked sullen.

Hans said nothing.

" A man should not be satisfied with a kitchen gar
den," she said sharply.

They sat on the porch steps. The night air was
warm and pure, the moon hung low over the rice fields
to the left, throwing fantastic shadows that chased
each other like noiseless ghosts as the wind swayed
the grain. To the right, beyond the valley, the moun
tains pierced the sky. They were all so friendly, but
dumb — dumb as himself. If they could only speak
and say of how little account money was, after all !
It seemed to Hans as if they were always just going
to speak !

But Christine did not look at sky, or mountains, or
sleeping valley. She looked at the gravel at her feet,
and gave it a little kick.

" iSTo doubt George Heller will succeed. I hope he
will, too ! " she said vehemently. " If a man has the
real stuff in him let him show it to the world ! I'll
go home now, Mr. Becht."

That evening Haiis's violin was silent. He used to
play until late in the night ; but he was sharpening
his long unused knives, with a pale face. He, too,
Avas beginning a Flight into Egypt.

During the next two weeks a tremendous whittling
went on in Walhalla. Some old fellows, who had

54 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

never cut anything but paper-knives and match-boxes,
were fired with the universal frenzy. Why should
not Stein, the cobbler, or Fritz, the butcher, chip his
way to wealth, fame, and New York ? There is not
a butcher or cobbler of us all who does not secretly
believe himself a genius equal to the best — barred
down by circumstance. George Heller kept his work
secret, but he was mightily stirred by it in soul and
body. Twice, in a rage, he broke the panel into bits,
and came out pale and covered with perspiration ; he
walked about muttering to himself like one in a
dream ; he went to Godfrey Stein's inn and drank
wine and brandy, and then more brandy, and forgot
to pay. Genius is apt to leave the lesser virtues in
the lurch. He kicked the dogs out of the way, cursed
the children, and was insolent to his old father who
still fed and clothed him.

"He's no better than a wolf's whelp!" said Stein.
" But he's got the true artist soul. He'll win ! "
Now if anybody knew the world, it was Godfrey
Stein.

Nobody thought Hans Becht would win but his old
mother. She was sure of it. She sat beside him
with her knitting, talking all the time. Why did he
not give himself more time ? The rice-field must be
flooded ? Let the rice go this year. He spent three
hours in the cotton this morning. And what with fod
dering the stock, and rubbing down even the pigs — .
What were cotton and pigs to this chance ? It would
come but once a life-time.

Meanwhile, Hans, when free from pigs and rice
and cotton, sat by the window and cut, cut, and

WALHALLA 5<J

whistled softly. The door of the kitchen stood open,
and the chickens came picking their way on to the
white floor. A swift stream of water ran through
the millet field and across the garden, shining in the
sun. The red rhododendrons nodded over it, and
the rowan bushes, scarlet with berries. Beyond the
millet field, there was a rampart of rolling hills, bronzed
with the early frost; but here blazed the crimson
leaves of the shonieho, and there a cucumber tree
thrust its open golden fruit, studded with scarlet
seeds, through the dull back-ground. Beyond this
rising ground were the peaks, indistinct as gray
shadows, holding up the sky.

Sometimes Mother Becht caught Hans with his
knife idle, looking at these far off heights, or at the
minnows glancing through the brook near at hand.
There was a great pleasure in his eyes.

"You are a fool to throw away your time," she
cried. "Can you cut that red weed or the sky into
your wood ? You could not even paint them."

" God forbid that anybody should try ! " thought
Hans.

"Stick to your work! work counts. The things
that count in the world are those which push you up
among your neighbors."

Hans began to cut a tip to Joseph's nose.

"The things which count in the world — " he
queried to himself. He did his thinking very slowly.
His blind father sat outside in the sun ; he came in
every hour or two to hear how the work was going on,
and then went to Schopf s shop to report. His wife told
him that there was no doubt that Hans would succeed.

56 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

"Joseph is good, and Mary is very fine," she said.
" But the mule is incomparable. If you could only
see the mule ! When Hans goes to New York, do
you think he will take us at once, or send for us in
the spring ? I think it would be safer to make the
journey in the spring. But it will not matter to pas
sengers in palace cars — no emigrant train for us,
then, father ! He will be taking three of us — "

" Eh ? How's that ? Three ? "

"Christine," she said, with a significant chuckle.
"Oh, she'll be glad enough to take our Hans, then!
She's had to work her fingers to the bone. She knows
the weight of a full purse."

"Hans is welcome to bring her home whether he
wins or not," said Father Becht. "He earns the loaf,
and it's big enough for four. There's not a sweeter
voice in Walhalla than Christy Vogel's."

" She's well enough," said Mrs. Becht, cautiously.
"Vogel's tobacco brought half a cent in the pound
more than ours, and it was Christine's raising and
drying. Her beer's fair, too. I've tasted it." She
went in and talked to Hans. " Only win, and Chris
tine will marry you. She'll follow the full purse."

" She'll follow the man she loves, and that is not
I," thought Hans, and he stopped whistling. His
mother's voice sounded on, click-click.

"When we are rich — when we are in the city —
when we drive in a carriage — "

" She, too ? " he considered, looking out thought
fully about him at the fat farm-lands, the pleasant
house, the cheery fire, and then away to the scarlet
rowan burning in the brown undergrowth, and the
misty, heaven-reaching heights.

WALIIALLA 57

Even his mother counted these things as nothing
beside fame, New York, money. Was he then mad
or a fool ?

Nobody thought he would win. Yet, everybody
stopped to look in. the window, with " good-luck,
Hans!"

" See what a favorite you are, my lad," said his
mother. " There's not a man or a woman in Walhalla
to whom you have not done a kindness. Do you think
the Lord does not know you deserve success ? If He
does not give you the prize instead of that drunken
Heller, there's no justice in heaven ! "

At last the Englishman returned. The decision was
to be made that night. Hans had finished his panel
that very day. He did not know whether it was bad
or good. He had cut away at it as faithfully as he had
rubbed down his pigs. He wrapped it up that even
ing and went down to the inn, stopping at Vogel's on
the way. The old people were at the well; Chris
tine had cooked the supper, milked the cows, and now
she was up in her chamber singing little Phil to sleep.

Her voice came down to Hans below full of passion
and sadness.

"Who is it she loves in that way?" he wondered.
He stood in the path of the little yard, listening.
Heller, coming across the street, eyed the square-jawed,
heavy figure. What an awkward figure it was, to be
sure. How the linen clothes bagged about it ! He
glanced down at his own natty little legs and shining
boots, and tossed his head jerkily. He carried his
panel wrapped in cloth, and came in, banging the gate
after him.

58 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

"Is that you, Becht ? Been whittling, too?" he
said, with an insolent chuckle.

Hans looked at him steadfastly, not hearing a word
that he said. AVas it Heller that she loved ? If he
were sure of it, he would not speak a word for himself.
No matter what became of him, if she were content.
He was hurt to the core.

Christine came down. She wore some stuff of pale
blue, and had fastened a bunch of wild roses in her
bosom. She was so silent and cold with both the
young men that one could hardly believe that it was
the woman who had sung with such passionate longing
over the child.

"]STow you shall see my panel!" cried Heller, ner
vously adjusting his spectacles. He set it 011 the
bench and dragged off the cloth.

"Ah-h!" cried Christine, clasping her hands; then
she turned anxiously to Hans.

Hans was not ready with his words. His eyes filled
with tears. He laid his hand on Heller's shoulder
with hearty good-will. The work gave him keen
pleasure. In the face of the mother bending over the
child there was that inscrutable meaning which he
found in the quiet valleys, the far heights. But
Heller, oddly, did not seem to see it.

"Yes, very nice bits of chipping there ! " pulling at
his red moustache. " I shall ask fifty dollars for
that."

Christine turned her searching eyes on him.

"Yes, fifty," he repeated, feeling that he had im
pressed her.

Hans, too, looked at him wondering. How could

WALHALLA 59

this paltry sot compel the secret into his work, which
to him was but a holy dream ? Christine was watch
ing him anxiously.

" Is that your panel ? " she said at last.

Hans nodded, hesitated a moment, and then broke
the thin bit of wood in two and filing it into the road.

" It was nothing but a fairly cut mule/' he said.

Heller laughed loud.

" Well, time to be off. Wish me good luck, Chris
tine ! "

She smiled, and walked with him to the gate. Hans
followed, but she did not once look at Hans. As she
opened the gate, Heller laid his hand quickly on hers ;
a rose fell from her dress ; he caught it and pressed it
to his lips. His breath was rank with liquor. Hans
thrust him back and strode between them.

" This must end. Christine, you must choose be
tween this man and me."

"I can easily do that," she said, quickly.

Heller laughed. Hans gulped down a lump in his
throat.

" Not to-night," he said.

By to-morrow, no doubt, Heller would be known as
successful, the man whose purse would always be full.
Christine must know precisely what she was choosing.
It was like Hans to think of these things. If, in
spite of it all, she came to him —

"There is another rose on your breast. Send it
to-morrow to the man you love," he said.

"I will." She did not look at him. She was as
pale as himself. He went down the street, leaving
her with Heller.

GO SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

Two hours afterward he went to the inn where Reid
was, and sat on a bench at the door. Half the village
was inside waiting to hear the decision. His heart
beat rebelliously against his breast. What if, after
all, there had been great hidden merit in his panel ?
It was only natural that Christine should be won
by clap-trap of success and money — she was only a
woman. " But no," he answered himself, " what I
am — I am. I want no varnish of praise or dollars."

Out came the crowd.

" I knew it ! " " The most worthless lout in Wal-
halla ! " " A drunkard for luck ! " " He goes to New
York next week."

" Then he must come back for his wife," said Stein.
" He told me to-night he was betrothed to Christy."

Hans stood up, and nodded good night to them as
he pushed through the crowd. He did not go home.
A damp breeze blew up the valley. Down yonder
were the far-reaching meadows, the lapping streams,
the great friendly trees. He went to them as a child
goes to its mother in trouble.

=*#=**#:*##

About six miles from Walhalla lies the trunk line
of the Atlanta and Richmond railroad. At ten o'clock
that evening, the moon being at the full, the engineer
of the express train, going north, saw a man at a turn
of the road signalling him vehemently to stop. Now, a
wray train in that leisurely region will pull up for any
signal. But this engineer looked out in calm contempt.

" Reckon he don't know the express ! " he said.
A little child in the cars saw the man gesticulating
wildly and laughed at him through the open window.

WALIIALLA 61

The man disappeared over the brow of the hill.
The road made a long circuit around its base. When
the engine came around this bend, the engineer, Hurst,
saw on the track in front a prison hand-car used to
transport the convict laborers from one division to
another. The convicts had been taken to the stockade
for the night, and the driver of the car was inside of
it, dead drunk.

Hurst had been twenty years in his business ; he
understood the condition of affairs at a glance. He
knew it meant death to all those people in the crowded
cars behind him, to him first of all. He whistled
down brakes, but he knew that it was of no use. The
brakes were of the old kind, and before the train
could be slackened it would be upon the solid mass in
front.

" We're done for, Zack," he said to the fireman. He
did not think of jumping off his engine. It is notice
able how few common-place men try to shirk death
when in the discharge of duty.

The brakes were of no use. The engine swept on,
hissing, shrieking.

Suddenly Hurst saw that the car was backing ! —
creeping like a snail ; but assuredly, backing.

" Y-ha ! " yelled Zack.

Hurst saw the man who had warned him standing
on the platform of the car, working it. Now, it re
quired at least four men to work that car.

In another minute the engine would be upon him.

" God ! You'll be killed ! " shouted Hurst. The
terrible hardihood of the man stunned him into for
getting that anybody else was in danger. At that

62 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

instant from the train came a frightful shriek —
women's voices. The passengers for the first time
saw their danger.

It was but a point of time, yet it seemed like an
hour. The train did not abate its speed. The man,
a short fellow of powerful build, threw the strength
of a giant into his straining muscles, his white face
with its distended eyes was close in front in the red
glare of the engine.

Hurst shut his eyes. He muttered something about
Joe — Joe was his little boy.

The train jarred with a long scrunching rasp, and
— stopped. They were saved.

"Great God!" prayed Hurst. "Tight squeak for
your life, Zack," he said aloud, wetting his lips with
his tongue.

The people poured out of the train. They went up
to the car, some laughing, some swearing. But every
man there felt as if Death had taken his soul into his
hold for a moment, and then let it go.

Three stout men tried to move the car. They could
not do it.

"Who is that fellow?"

" A workman on the road ? "

"No," said Hurst.

" Where is he ? " asked several.

For he had vanished as if the earth had swallowed
him up.

"He was a youngish, light-complexioned fellow,"
said Zack. " Most likely a Deutcher from Wal-
halla."

"Whoever he may be, he saved our lives," said a

WALIIALLA 63

director of the road. " I never saw such desperate
courage. I vote for a testimonial."

The American soul exults in testimonials, and the
Southerner is free with his money. There happened,
too, to be a delegation of New York merchants on
board, who valued their lives at a pretty figure.
More than all, there was a widow from California, the
owner of millions and of the pretty boy who had
looked out of the window. " He saved my baby," she
said with a sob, as she took the paper.

The testimonial grew suddenly into a sum which
made Hurst wink with amazement when he heard of
it. " That fellow will be king in Walhalla," he said.

It was near morning when Hans came home. He
went to his room, said his prayers, and slept heavily.
The next morning the village was on fire with excite
ment. The inn was full of passengers from the train ;
the story was in everybody's mouth. The director of
the road had driven over from the station. When
Hans went down to the pasture that morning he saw
a placard stating the facts and the sum subscribed,
and requesting the claimant to present himself at the
station that evening for identification by Hurst.

Hans went on to the pasture. When he came back
and was at work in the garden, he could hear through
the paling the people talking as they went by.

" He will be the richest man in Walhalla."

" The director says the company will give him a
situation for life. So they ought ! "

Nothing else was talked of. The contests of yes
terday and all the Flights into Egypt were forgotten.

" Ah, that fellow is lucky, whoever he is ! " he heard

64 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

his mother say on the sidewalk. " And there's Heller !
Some people are born to luck ! " looking over the palings
with bitter disappointment at Hans, digging potatoes.

But blind Father Becht listened in silence. He
knew but one man in the world brave enough for such
a deed. " I give that lad my blessing ! " he said,
striking his cane on the ground. He, too, turned
toward Hans, digging potatoes.

" Heller is packing to be off to New York," some
body said. " They say Vogel's pretty daughter is to
follow in the spring."

Hans stuck his spade into the ground and went to
his mother. " I am going to salt the cattle on the
north mountain," he said.

"Very well. He does not even care to know who
this brave lad is," she said to his father. "He's a
good boy, but dull — dull. They tell me there is a
woman from California at the inn. She says she
must see the man who saved her boy's life. She is
rich and has her whims, no doubt."

Night came, but the man had not presented himself.
The next day the director, who was of a generous,
impatient temper, offered a reward to anybody who
could make him known. It was certain he had told
nobody what he had done, or they now would have
come forward for the reward. The excitement grew
with every hour. Hans returned late in the next day.
He went to his spade and began to dig the rest of
the potatoes. His mother followed.

" Well," she exclaimed, "he is not found ! The story
is gone by telegraph to all parts of the country. Here
are fame and riches waiting for him. Some people

W ALII ALL A 65

certainly are born on lucky Sundays. There is Heller,
the drunken beast, gone off to New York. And you
must dig potatoes ! There's no justice in heaven ! "

She clicked away, knitting as she went.

Now I may as well say here that although this hap
pened years ago, the missing man is not yet found.
He is the mystery and pride of all that region. The
director put the money out at compound interest, but
it is yet unclaimed.

Concerning Hans, however, who digs his potatoes in
the same patch, we have something more to tell.
When he had finished digging that morning he went
into the house. The stout fellow had lost his ruddy
color, as though he had lately gone through some heavy
strain of body or soul. He sat on the kitchen steps
and played a soft air on his violin. The earth he had
been digging lay in moist, black heaps. He liked the
smell of it. How like a whispering voice was the gurgle
of the stream through the roots of the sumachs ! Yon
der was a Peruvian tree, raising its trunk and branches
in blood-red leaves against the still air; far beyond
were the solemn heights. He had just come from
there. He knew how quiet it was yonder near the
sky — how friendly. All these things came, as he
played, into the music and spoke through it, and a
great stillness and peace shone in his eyes.

And at that moment — he never forgot it in all his
life — a woman's hand brushed his cheek, and a red
rose came before his eyes.

" You did not come for the rose, so I brought it to
you," said Christine.

Later in the morning they went to the well together ;

66 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

all tlieir neighbors were there, and it was soon known
they were betrothed. Everybody took Hans by the
hand. Ho had never guessed he had so many friends.
"There is no better fellow in the world," they said to
one another. " He deserves Inek."

" That is why I was impatient with you," whispered
Christine. " I could not bear to see that miserable
Heller carry away all the praise and the money."

"These are not the things in the world that count,"
said Hans, quietly.

Presently an open carriage drove through the street.

" That is the lady who was in the train," the people
whispered. " That is her boy. She says she will not
go until she finds the man who saved them."

The lady, smiling, held her baby up that it might
see the women. She was greatly amused and interested
by the quaint German village. When the boy caught
sight of Hans he laughed and held out his hands. The
mother nodded kindly. "The brave man who saved
us also wore a •workman's dress, I am told," she said.
"My boy saw him as he passed."

Hans took the child in his arms for a moment, and
kissed him. When he gave him back to his mother his
eyes were full of tears. Then the carriage drove on.

He stood at the door of the home that was so dear
to him. Christine held his hand, the sun shone cheer
fully about him.

"To think," said his mother, "that we are not to
know who that brave fellow is ! "

His blind father took Hans's other hand softly in his.

" God knows," he said.

But no one heard him.

THE DOCTOR'S WIFE

DTL NOYES married, I think, somewhere about
'08 or '9. There is very little to be said about
his wife. Mrs. Sarah Fanning, indeed, gave a decisive
verdict upon her at first sight. "She is one of the
rank and file of Humanity," said she; "one of the
weightless molecules that go to make up the mass."
Mrs. Fanning was that brilliant little woman from
Andover, Massachusetts, who essayed to take the well-
known Mrs. Hush's place in Philadelphia that winter.
She used to give weekly reunions — without supper;
she cannot understand, even now, why she could not
" form a literary nucleus " there.

Nobody contradicted her verdict ; she always claimed
Humanity as her own pre-empted property ; and be
sides, there really was so little to say about the Doctor's
wife ! Mrs. Fanning remarked that " an American
woman, if no other, ought to have some salient points,
good or bad, to justify her right to live, and this
woman was an American of the Americans, descended
on one side from a colonial Maryland family, and on
the other, of Pennsylvania Quaker stock, a race of
reformers, who lived only for great ideas. But there

67

68 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

was absolutely nothing in the creature — nothing! It
was inexplicable, by all the rules of race ! " The little
lady's specialty, by the bye, was "race" and "strains
of blood." She could lay her finger on the very great
grandfather from whom you inherited your long upper-
lip or gluttonous propensities, and reason for you, out
of these inheritances, such sequences of fatalism that
your Christianity tottered quite to its foundations.

Now there had been no salient points about the
Doctor's wife when she was a fat baby, or a girl at
school. Dode Mear was daily set down as a dunce in
every class in Madame Latouche's private school, from
spelling up to International Law, and daily took up
her book with a cheerful "It really is too bad in mo,"
and went out in the evening with fresh zeal to skate
and run races with the boys, — her cousins. If she
had been one of the delicate "Lilys" and "Violets"
whom the other girls set apart to adore, her lack of
brains could have been overlooked ; but she was a
short, thickset little body, with a shock of red hair
tied back from a freckled face which was lighted by
laughing blue eyes, — eyes in which there was an un
deniable cast. She never, however, gave a hint of her
opinion of herself, and always seemed to be in high
good humor with her lot in life, stupidity and squint
included. A certain indefinable something about the
girl would prevent any one from hinting a disagreeable
truth to her. The same impalpable reserve or old-
fashioned courtesy in her, too, made the boys who
skated and raced with her treat her with a respect
which they did not show to the Lilys and Violets.
Her condition on graduation-day would have been

THE DOCTOR'S WIFE 69

pitiable if her placid good humor had not made it
exasperating. One of the class was going to sail as
Missionary to Africa : we all made a paragon and
martyr of her; we all looked forward with hysteric
enthusiasm to speedily becoming famous authors, lead
ers in society, or at least, wives and mothers. Clergy
men and faculty spoke and prayed at us, the very air
kindled with hope and fervor ; and there sat that
plump little dunce at the foot of the bench, smelling
a bunch of the red Burgundy roses, of which she was
so fond, quite contented to be nobody now and in the
future !

Here she was again, Dr. Noyes's wife, shapeless and
freckled and bright-eyed as ever : but the ugly hair
was always delicately coiffured, and her simple dress
a marvel of exquisite art. She did not care in the
least that everybody believed that she had sold herself
for an establishment. Why else should a girl of her
age marry a cynical, soured widower of fifty, with a
half dozen hobble-de-hoys of sons ?

" Dr. Noyes," Mrs. Fanning said, " was an ambitious
man, thwarted in his aims, by the drudgery of support
ing a family. He should have chosen an intellectual
woman as his second wife, who could have helped him
to regain his lost ground."

The Doctor's mistake was soon apparent in his wife's
course. The faded carpets and hair-cloth sofas were
swept out of the dreary old house. The money spent
in making it bright and pretty, as Mrs. Fanning said,
would have kept open a soup house all winter : Noyes's
old friends, instead of smoking their meerschaums in
his dusty office, came in now to cosey dinners, where

70 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

each man found his favorite dish : his wife had a fine
taste in cookery, it appears : in that, as in everything
else she took life with zest and joyously: the Noyes
boys, who had begun to hang round Variety theatres
and engine-houses, gave a series of dancing parties and
private theatricals at home, to which girls of their
own class came.

Now all these things bring in bills : the Doctor's
long-hoarded money was spent like water. It was an
inscrutable mystery to our society leaders why he and
his boys, and in fact, all other men, clustered around
Mrs. Docle, as they called her, affectionately, like bees
about honey. She never said anything worth remem
bering for five minutes : she made no professions of
love or friendship. Some of us, who remembered how
the whole school used to pause to hear her read her
Bible verse, thought the charm lay in her pleasant
voice, or could there be any magic in the clean, spicy
scent of Burgundy roses with which the house was
always filled ? The men, when questioned, really
seemed to have no definite idea of the woman : one
"liked her because she was quiet," another because
"her handshake was as firm as a man's," another for
her merry laugh.

In the meantime they all carried their secrets to her :
the very classmates of the ISI^es boys wrote to her
about their college scrapes that she might " see father
and mother about it, and beg them off." She had a
queer "following" of women too, shabby widows and
fashionable belles and poor sempstresses — you were
just as likely to find one at her table as the other. She
had not the least perception of class distinctions, owing

THE DOCTOR'S WIFE 71

perhaps to those Quaker grandfathers who measured
the world and all in it by ideas. She had, too, differ
ent rates of value from ours with regard to other things.
Mrs. Fanning unconsciously ranked herself high in the
scale of being because of her priceless bric-a-brac, and
portfolio of proofs before letters. Mrs. Dode also sur
rounded herself with old china and pictures, but was
indifferent about it : she did not carry her little lux
uries with the uneasy vanity of a workman in his
Sunday shirt. Art and wealth had been ordinary
appliances of her mother's people in Maryland for
generations. She took no more notice as to whether a
man Avas rich or poor in such things than whether he
came to her gloved or ungloved.

Somebody was sure to bring every foreign traveller
to the Doctor's house ; whether it was prince, novel
ist, or poet, Mrs. Dode welcomed them to her ordinary
table and habits, not concerning herself to inquire
if they were used to a palace or hovel : and they in
turn forgot to notice whether the courses were served
in Kussian or French fashion, or how she dealt with
her a's.

" I wish you to judge of us by our representative
women," Mrs. Fanning said to one of these tourists
while they were dining at the Doctor's, " and not
by negative characters."

But he could look at nobody but the homely little
woman at the head of the table. "Ah, madam," he
cried, " there are so many representative women ! But
the old story tells us of how Prince Charming married
the good fairy, and by her had a family of but few
children, all of whom were born in the light of the

72 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

moon ; and I meet one now and then in this country
or in that. When I find one of them, then I look no
farther."

It was quite natural that Mrs. Dode, having lived
in so negative a way, without making any mark or
bruit in the world, should die in the same fashion.
It appears that while she seemed in health some
secret symptoms led her to consult a physician. She
went to New York to do this, saying nothing to her
husband, and there learned that she had but a short
time to live. Whatever grief she may have felt, she
showed none and told nobody her secret. When she
came back, the home life went on in its usual merry
fashion. Dick and Joe both brought their brides
home that winter. Dr. Noyes, who had grown younger
and more energetic every year since his marriage, was
busied with some experiments in electricity, which
added greatly to his reputation. Mrs. Dode did not
change her habits in the least. She never had been a
constant church-goer, nor a member of any charitable
society, and she did not become one now. It was
remembered afterwards that she remained out longer
in the mornings on her rounds among the poor, and
that she had a print which was in her chamber, re-
hung, so that she could see it when she first woke in
the morning. (It was the Head crowned with thorns.)

In June her husband was invited to Baltimore to
an anniversary celebration, in which he always took a
keen delight. She clung to him and cried when he
was going.

"If you need me, Dode, I will stay with you," he
said, tenderly.

THE DOCTOR'S WIFE 73

She hesitated a little, and then raised herself, smil
ing. "No, it will be pleasanter for you there," said
she, "only good-bye once more, dear."

She went to bed as usual that night. In the morn
ing they found her dead, her cheek resting on her hand,
a half smile on the freckled face : her other hand,
tight closed, was lying on her heart, and they found
in it a bit of the hair of the little dead-born baby that
came to her years ago, whose head had never rested
on her bosom.

The morning sun shone brightly over her, and the
room was filled with the perfume of fresh roses.

ANNE

IT was a strange thing, the like of which had never
before happened to Anne. In her matter-of-fact,
orderly life mysterious impressions were rare. She
tried to account for it afterward by remembering that
she had fallen asleep out-of-doors. And out-of-doors,
where there is the hot sun and the sea and the teem
ing earth and tireless winds, there are perhaps great
forces at work, both good and evil, mighty creatures
of God going to and fro, who do not enter into the
little wooden or brick boxes in which we cage our
selves. One of these, it may be, had made her its
sport for the time.

Anne, when she fell asleep, was sitting in a hammock
on a veranda of the house nearest to the water. The
wet bright sea-air blew about her. She had some red
roses in her hands, and she crushed them up under her
cheek to catch the perfume, thinking drowsily that
the colors of the roses and cheek were the same. For
she had had great beauty ever since she was a baby,
and felt it, as she did her blood, from her feet to her
head, and triumphed and was happy in it. She had
a wonderful voice too. She was silent now, being
74

ANNE 75

nearly asleep. But the air was so cold and pure, and
the scent of the roses so strong in the sunshine, and
she was so alive and throbbing with youth and beauty,
that it seemed to her that she was singing so that all
the world could hear, and that her voice rose — rose
up and up into the very sky.

Was that George whom she saw through her half-
shut eyes coming across the lawn? And Theresa
with him ? She started, with a sharp wrench at her
heart.

But what was Theresa to George? Ugly, stupid,
and older than he, a woman who had nothing to win
him — but money. She had not cheeks like rose
leaves, nor youth, nor a voice that could sing at
heaven's gate. Anne curled herself, smiling, down to
sleep again. A soft warm touch fell on her lips.

" George ! "

The blood stopped in her veins ; she trembled even
in her sleep. A hand was laid on her arm.

" Bless grashus, Mrs. Palmer ! hyah's dat coal man
wants he's money. I's been huntin' you low an' high,
an' you a-sleepin' out'n dohs ! "

Anne staggered to Tier feet.

" Mother," called a stout young man from the tan-
bark path below, "I must catch this train. Jenny
will bring baby over for tea. I wish you would
explain the dampers in that kitchen range to her."

The wet air still blew in straight from the hazy sea
horizon ; the crushed red roses lay on the floor.

But she —

There was a pier-glass in the room beside her.
Going up to it, she saw a stout woman of fifty with

76 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

grizzled hair and a big nose. Her cheeks were yel
low.

She began to sing. Nothing came from her month
but a discordant yawp. She remembered that her
voice left her at eighteen, after she had that trouble
with her larynx. She put her trembling hand up to
her lips.

George had never kissed them. He had married
Theresa more than thirty years ago. George Forbes
was now a famous author.

Her fingers still lay upon her lips. " I thought
that he — " she whispered, with a shudder of shame
through all of her stout old body.

But below, underneath that, her soul flamed with

rapture. Something within her cried out, " / am here

— Anne! I am beautiful and young. If this old

throat were different, my voice would ring through

earth and heaven."

"Mrs. Palmer, de coal man — ."

" Yes, I am coming, Jane." She took her account-
book from her orderly work-basket and went down to
the kitchen.

When she came back she found her daughter Susan
at work at the sewing-machine. Mrs. Palmer stopped
beside her, a wistful smile on her face. Susan was so
young : she would certainly take an interest in this
thing which had moved her so deeply. Surely some
force outside of nature had been thrust into her life
just now, and turned it back to its beginnings !

" I fell asleep out on the porch awhile ago, Susy,"
she said, "and I dreamed that I was sixteen again.
It was very vivid. I cannot even now shake off the

ANNE 77

impression that I am young and beautiful and in
love."

" Ah, yes ! poor dear papa ! " Susy said, with a sigh,
snipping her thread. She wished to say something
more, something appropriate and sympathetic, about
this ancient love of her parents j but it really seemed
a little ridiculous, and besides, she was in a hurry to
finish the ruffle. Jasper was coming up for tea.

Mrs. Palmer hesitated, and then went on into her
own room. She felt chilled and defeated. She had
thought Susy would take an interest, but — Of course
she could not explain to her that it was not of her
poor dear papa that she had dreamed. After all, was
it quite decent in a middle-aged respectable woman to
have such a dream ? Her sallow jaws reddened as she
shut herself in. She had been very foolish to tell
Susy about it at all.

Mrs. Nancy Palmer was always uncomfortably in
awe of the hard common-sense of her children. They
were both Palmers. When James was a baby he had
looked up one day from her breast with his calm at
tentive eyes, and she had quailed before them. "I
never shall be as old as he is already," she had thought.
But as they grew up they loved their mother dearly.
Her passionate devotion to them would have touched
hearts of stone, and the Palmers were not at all stony
hearted, but kindly, good-humored folk, like their
father.

The neighborhood respected Mrs. Palmer as a woman
of masculine intellect because, after her husband's
death, she had managed the plantation with remarka
ble energy and success. She had followed his exact,

78 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

methodical habits in peach-growing and in the man
agement of house, had cleared the property of debt,
and then had invested in Western lands so shrewdly
as to make herself and the children rich.

But James and Susan were always secretly amused
at the deference paid to their mother by the good
Delaware planters. She was the dearest woman in
the world, but as to a business head — •

All her peach crops, her Dakota speculations, and
the bank stock which was the solid fruit thereof went
for nothing as proofs to them of adult good sense.
They were only dear mamma's lucky hits. How could
a woman have a practical head who grew so bored
with the pleasant church sociables, and refused abso
lutely to go to the delightful Literary Circle ? who
would listen to a hand-organ with tears in her eyes,
and who had once actually gone all the way up to
Philadelphia to hear an Italian stroller named Salvini ?

Neither of them could understand such childish
outbreaks. Give a Palmer a good peach farm, a com
fortable house, and half a dozen servants to worry
him, and his lines of life were full. Why should their
mother be uneasy inside of these lines ?

That she was uneasy to-day, Susy soon perceived.
A letter came from Pierce and Wall, her consignees
in Philadelphia; but Mrs. Palmer threw it down
unopened, though she had shipped three hundred
crates of Morris Whites last Monday.

She was usually a most careful house-keeper, keep
ing a sharp eye on the careless negroes, but she dis
appeared for hours this afternoon, although Jasper
Tyrrell was coming for tea, and Jane was sure to

ANNE 79

make a greasy mess of the terrapin if left to her
self.

Jasper certainly had paid marked attention to Susy
lately, but she knew that he was a cool, prudent young
fellow, who would look at the matter on every side
before he committed himself. The Tyrrells were an
old, exclusive family, who would exact perfection from
a bride coming among them, from her theology to her
tea biscuit.

"A trifle of less importance than messy terrapin
has often disgusted a man," thought Susy, her blue
eyes dim with impatience.

Just before sunset Mrs. Palmer came up the road,
her hands full of brilliant maple leaves. Susy hurried
to meet and kiss her ; for the Palmers were a demon
strative family, who expressed their affection by a
perpetual petting and buzzing about each other. The
entire household would shudder with anxiety if a
draught blew on mamma's neck, and fall into an agony
of apprehension if the baby had a cold in its head.
Mrs. Palmer, for some reason, found that this habit
of incessant watchfulness bored her just now.

"No, my shoes are not damp, Susy. No, I did not
need a shawl. I am not in my dotage, child, that I
cannot walk out without being wrapped up like an
Esquimau. One would think I was on the verge of
the grave."

"Oh, no, but you are not young, darling mamma.
You are just at the age when rheumatisms and lumba
goes and such things set in if one is not careful. Where
have you been ? "

" I took a walk in the woods.'7

80 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

" Woods ! No wonder your shoulders are damp.
Come in directly, dear. Four grains of quinine and
a hot lemonade going to bed. Walking in the woods !
Really, now, that is something I cannot understand,"
— smiling at her mother as though she were a very
small child indeed. " Now I can walk any distance
to church, or to shop, or for any reasonable motive,
but to go wandering about in the swampy woods for
no earthly purpose — I'll press those leaves for you/'
checking herself.

"No ; I do not like to see pressed leaves and grasses
about in vases. It is like making ornaments of hair
cut from a dead body. When summer is dead, let it
die." She threw down the leaves impatiently, and
the wind whirled them away.

" How queer mamma and the people of that genera
tion are — so little self-control ! " thought Susy. " It
is nearly time for Mr. Tyrrell to be here," she said
aloud. " Can Jane season the terrapin ? "

" Oh, I suppose so," said Mrs. Palmer, indifferently,
taking up a book.

She was indifferent and abstracted all evening.
Peter clattered the dishes as he waited at the supper-
table, and the tea was lukewarm. Jasper was luke
warm too, silent and critical.

James's wife, Jenny, had come over for supper, and
finding her mother-in-law so absent and inattentive,
poured forth her anecdotes of baby to Mr. Tyrrell.
Jenny, like most young mothers, gave forth inexhaust
ibly theories concerning the sleep, diet, and digestion
of infants. Jasper, bored and uneasy, snuffled in his
chair. He had always thought Mrs. Palmer was

ANNE 81

charming as a hostess, full of tact, in fine rapport with
every one. Couldn't she see how this woman was
bedevilling him with her croup and her flannels ?
She was apparently blind and deaf to it all.

Mrs. Palmer's vacant eyes were turned out of the
window. Susy glanced at her with indignation. Was
mamma deranged ?

How petty the pursuits of these children were !
thought the older woman, regarding them as from a
height. How cautious and finical Tyrrell was in his
love-making ! Susy too — six months ago she had
carefully inquired into Jasper's income.

Tea biscuit and flannels and condensed milk ! At
seventeen her horizon had not been so cramped and
shut in. How wide and beautiful the world had been !
Nature had known her and talked to her, and in all
music there had been a word for her, alone and apart.
How true she had been to her friends ! how she had
hated her enemies ! how, when love came to her —
Mrs. Palmer felt a sudden chill shiver through her
limbs. She sat silent until they rose from table.
Then she hurried to her own room. She did not
make a light. She told herself that she was absurdly
nervous, and bathed her face and wrists in cold water.
But she could not strike a light. This creature within
her, this Anne, vivid and beautiful and loving, was she
to face the glass and see the old yellow-skinned woman ?

She ought to think of that old long-ago self as dead.

But it was not dead.

"If I had married the man I loved," this something
within her cried, "I should have had my true life.
He would have understood me.'7

82 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

How ridiculous and wicked it all was !

" I was a loyal, loving wife to Job Palmer," she
told herself, resolutely lighting the lamp and facing
the stout figure in the glass with its puffy black silk
gown. " My life went down with his into the grave."

But there was a flash in the gray pleading eyes
which met her in the glass that gave her the lie.

They were Anne's eyes, and Anne had never been
Job Palmer's wife.

Mrs. Palmer did not go down again that night. A
wood fire blazed on her hearth, and she put on her
wrapper and drew her easy-chair in front of it, with
the little table beside her on which lay her Bible and
prayer-book and a Kempis. This quiet hour was usu
ally the happiest of the day. James and Jenny always
came in to kiss her good-bye, and Susy regularly crept
in when the house was quiet to read a chapter with
her mother and to tuck her snugly into bed.

But to-night she locked her door. She wanted to
be alone. She tried to read, but pushed the books
away, and turning out the light, threw herself upon
the bed. Not a Kempis nor any holy saint could
follow her into the solitudes into which her soul had
gone. Could God Himself understand how intolerable
this old clumsy body had grown to her ?

She remembered that when she had been ill with
nervous prostration two years ago she had in an hour
suddenly grown eighty years old. Now the blood of
sixteen was in her veins. Why should this soul
within her thus dash her poor brain from verge to
verge of its narrow range of life ?

The morbid fancies of the night brought her by

ANNE 83

morning to an odd resolution. She would go away.
Why should she not go away ? She had done her full
duty to husband, children, and property. Why should
she not begin somewhere else, live out her own life ?
Why should she not have her chance for the few
years left ? Music and art and the companionship of
thinkers and scholars. Mrs. Palmer's face grew pale
as she named these things so long forbidden to her.

It was now dawn. She hastily put on a travelling
dress, and placed a few necessary articles and her
check-book in a satchel.

" Carry this to the station," she said to Peter, who,
half asleep, was making up the fires.

" Gwine to Philadelphy, Mis' Palmer ? Does Miss
Susy know ? "

" Xo. Tell her I have been suddenly called away."

As she walked to the station she smiled to think
how Susy would explain her sudden journey by the
letter from Pierce and Wall, and would look to find
whether she had taken her overshoes and chamois
jacket. "I hate overshoes, and I would like to tear
that jacket into bits ! " she thought as she took her
seat in the car. She was going to escape from it all.
She would no longer be happed and dosed and watched
like a decrepit old crone. She was an Affectionate
mother, but it actually did not occur to her that she
was leaving Susy and James and the baby. She was
possessed with a frenzy of delight in escaping. The
train moved. She was free ! She could be herself
now at last !

It could be easily arranged. She would withdraw
her certificates and government bonds from the vaults

84 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

of the trust company in Philadelphia. The children
had their own property secure.

Where should she go ? To Rome ? Venice ? No.
There were so many Americans trotting about Europe.
She must be rid of them all. Now there was Egypt
and the Nile. Or if another expedition were going to
Iceland ? Up there in the awful North among the
glaciers and geysers, and sagas and Runic relics, one
would be in another world, and forget Morris Whites
and church sociables and the wiggling village gossip.

"There are people in this country who live in a
high pure atmosphere of thought, who never descend
to gossip or money-making/' she thought, remember
ing the lofty strains of George Forbes's last poem.
" If I had been his wrife I too might have thought
great thoughts and lived a noble life."

She tried angrily to thrust away this idea. She did
not mean to be a traitor to her husband, whom she
had loved well and long.

But the passion of her youth maddened her. Job
had been a good commonplace man. But this other
was a Seer, a Dictator of thought to the world.

The train rolled into Broad Street station. Mrs.
Palmer went to the Trust company and withdrew her
bonds. She never before had come up to the city
alone ; Susy always accompanied her to " take care of
dear mamma." Susy, who had provincial ideas as to
" what people in our position should do," always took
her to the most fashionable hotel, and ordered a din
ner the cost of which weighed upon her conscience
for months afterward. Mrs. Palmer now went to a
cheap little cafe in a back street, and ate a chop with

the keen delight of a runaway dog gnawing a stolen
bone. A cold rain began to fall, and she was damp
and chilled when she returned to the station.

Where should she go ? Italy — the Xile — Heav
ens ! there were the Crotons from Dover getting out
of the train! She must go somewhere at once to
hide herself ; afterward she could decide on her course.
A queue of people were at the ticket window. She
placed herself in line.

" Boston ? " said the agent.

She nodded. In five minutes she was seated in
a parlor car, and thundering across the bridge above
the great abattoir. She looked down on the cattle in
their sheds. "I do wonder if Peter will give Eosy
her warm mash to-night ? " she thought, uneasily.

There were but three seats occupied in the car.
Two men and a lady entered together and sat near to
Mrs. Palmer, so that she could not but hear their talk,
which at first ran upon draughts.

"You might open your window, Corvill," said one
of the men, "if Mrs. Ames is not afraid of neuralgia."

Corvill ? Ames ? Mrs. Palmer half rose from her
seat. Why, Corvill was the name of the great figure-
painter ! She had an etching of his " Hagar." She
never looked into that woman's face without a wrench
at her heart. All human pain and longing spoke in it
as they did in George Forbes's poems. Mrs. Ames,
she had heard, was chairman of the Woman's National
Society for the Examination of Prisons. Mrs. Palmer
had read her expose of the abominations of the lessee
system — words burning with a fiery zeal for human
ity. There had been a symposium in Philadelphia,

86 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

she remembered, of noted authors and artists this
week.

No doubt these were two of those famous folk.
Mrs. Palmer drew nearer, feeling as if she were creep
ing up to the base of Mount Olympus. This was
what happened when one cut loose from Morris
Whites and terrapin and that weary Jane and Peter !
The Immortals were outside, and she had come into
their company.

" Oh, open the window ! " said Mrs. Ames, who had
a hoarse voice which came in bass gusts and snorts
out of a mouth mustached like a man's. " Let's have
some air ! The sight of those emigrants huddled in
the station nauseated me. Women and babies all
skin and bone and rags."

Now Mrs. Palmer had just emptied her purse and
almost cried over that wretched group. That sick
baby's cry would wring any woman's heart, she
thought. Could it be that this great philanthropist
had pity only for the misery of the masses ? But
the man who painted " Hagar " surely would be piti-
' ful and tender ?

" Sorry they annoyed you," he was saying. " Some
very good subjects among them. I made two sketches,"
pulling out a note-book. "That half -starved woman
near the door — see ? — eh ? Fine slope in the chin
and jaw. I wanted a dying baby for my ' Exiles/
too. I caught the very effect I wanted. Sick child."

Mrs. Palmer turned her revolving chair away. It
was a trifling disappointment, but it hurt her. She
was in that strained, feverish mood when trifles hurt
sharply. These were mere hucksters of art and hu-

ANNE 87

inanity. They did not belong to the high pure level
011 which stood great interpreters of the truth — such,
for instance, as George Forbes. The little quake
which always passed through her at this man's name
was increased by a shiver from the damp wind blow
ing upon her. She sneezed twice.

Mrs. Ames stared at her insolently, and turned her
back, fearing that she might be asked to put down
the window.

Mr. Corvill was talking about the decoration of the
car. " Not bad at all," he said. " There is great
tenderness in the color of that ceiling, and just look
at the lines of the chairs ! They are full of feeling."

Mrs. Palmer listened, bewildered. But now they
were looking at the landscape. If he found feeling
in the legs of a chair, what new meanings would he
not discover in that vast stretch of lonely marsh with
the narrow black lagoons creeping across it ?

"Nice effect," said Mr. Corvill — "the lichen on
that barn against the green. I find little worth using
in the fall this year, however. Too much umber in
the coloring."

Could it be, she thought, that these people had made
a trade of art and humanity until they had lost the
perception of their highest meanings ?

"I should think," continued Corvill, turning to
the other man, "you could find materiel for some
verses in these flats. Ulalume, or The Land of Dolor.
Something in that line. Eh, Forbes ? "

Forbes ! Her breath stopped. That fat hunched
man with the greasy black whiskers and gaudy chain !
Yes, that was his voice ; but had it always that tone
of vulgar swagger ?

88 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

"I've stopped verse-writing," lie said. "Poetry's a
drug in the market. My infernal publishers shut
down on it five years ago."

He turned, and she then saw his face — the thin
hard lips, the calculating eye.

Was this man " George " ? Or had that George
ever lived except in her fancy ?

"Mr. Forbes." She rose. The very life in her
seemed to stop ; her knees shook. But habit is
strong. She bowed as she named him, and stood
there, smiling, the courteous, thorough-bred old lady
whose charm young Tyrrell had recognized. Some
power in the pathetic gray eyes startled Forbes and
brought him to his feet.

"I think 1 knew you long ago," she said. "If it
is you — ? "

" Forbes is my name, ma'am. Lord bless me ! you
can't be — Something familiar in your eyes. You
remind me of Judge Sinclair's daughter Fanny."

" Anne was my name."

" Anne. To be sure. I knew it was Nanny or
Fanny. I ought to remember, for I was spoons on
you myself for a week or two. You know you were
reckoned the best catch in the county, eh? Sit
down, ma'am, sit down; people of our weight aren't
built for standing."

" Is — your wife with you ? "

"You refer to the first Mrs. Forbes — Theresa
Stone ? I have been married twice since her decease.
I am now a widower." He put his hand to his mouth
and coughed, glancing at the crape on his hat. His
breath crossed her face. It reeked of heavy feeding

ANNE 89

and night orgies ; for Forbes, though avaricious, had
gross appetites.

Suddenly Job Palmer stood before her, with his fine
clear-cut face and reasonable eyes. He knew little
outside of his farm perhaps ; but how clean was his
soul ! How he had loved her !

The car at that moment swayed violently from side
to side ; the lamps went out. " Hello ! " shouted
Forbes. " Something wrong ! We must get out of
this ! " rushing to the door. She braced herself
against her chair.

In the outside darkness the rushing of steam was
heard, and shrieks of women in mortal agony. A
huge weight fell on the car, crushing in the roof.
Mrs. Palmer was jammed between two beams, but
unhurt. A heavy rain was falling.

" I shall not be burned to death, at any rate," she
thought, and then fortunately became insensible.

In half an hour she was cut out and laid on the
bank, wet and half frozen, but with whole bones.
She tried to rise, but could not ; every joint ached
with rheumatism ; her gown was in tatters, the mud
was deep under her, and the rain pelted down. She
saw the fire burning on her hearth at home, and the
easy-chair in front of it, and the Bible and a Kem pis.

Some men with lanterns came up and bent over her.

" Great God, mother ! " one of them cried. It was
James, who had been on the same train, going to New
York.

The next day she was safely laid in her own bed.
The fire was burning brightly, and Susy was keeping
guard that she might sleep. Jenny had just brought

90 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

a delicious bowl of soup and fed it to her, and baby
had climbed up on the bed to hug her, and fallen
asleep there. She held him in her arm, James came
in on tiptoe, and bent anxiously over her. She saw
them all through her half-shut eyes.

" My own — flesh of my flesh ! " she thought, and
thanked God from her soul for the love that held her
warm and safe.

As she dozed, Susy and James bent over her.
" Where could she have been going ? " said Susy.

" To New York ; no doubt to make a better con
tract than the one she has with Pierce and Wall — to
make a few more dollars for us. Or, an investment :
her bonds were all in her satchel.. Poor dear unselfish
soul ! Don't worry her with questions, Susy — don't
speak of it."

"No, I will not, Jim," said Susy, wiping her eyes.
" But if she only had taken her chamois jacket ! "

James himself, when his mother was quite well,
remarked one day, " We had a famous fellow-traveller
in that train to New York — Forbes, the author."

" A most disagreeable, underbred person ! " said
Mrs. Palmer, vehemently. " I would not have you
notice such people, James — a mere shopman of liter
ature ! "

Susy married Jasper Tyrrell that winter. They
live in the homestead now, and Mrs. Palmer has
four or five grandchildren about her, whom she spoils
to her heart's content. She still dabbles a little in
mining speculations; but since her accident on the

ANNE

cars she is troubled with rheumatism, and leaves the
management of the farm and house to Jasper and
Susy* She has a quiet, luxurious, happy life, being
petted like a baby by all of the Palmers. Yet some
times in the midst of all this comfort and sunshine a
chance note of music or the sound of the restless
wind will bring an expression into her eyes which
her children do not understand, as if some creature
unknown to them looked out of them.

At such times Mrs. Palmer will say to herself,
"Poor Anne ! " as of somebody whom she once knew
that is dead.

Is she dead? she feebly wonders; and if she is
dead here, will she ever live again ?

AN IGNOBLE MARTYR

OLD Aaron Pettit, who had tried to live for ten
years with half of his body dead from paralysis,
had given up at last. He was altogether dead now,
and laid away out of sight in the three-cornered lot
where the Pettits had been buried since colonial days.
The graveyard was a triangle cut out of the wheat
field by a certain Osee Pettit in 1G95. Many a time
had Aaron, while ploughing, stopped to lean over the
fence and calculate how many bushels of grain the
land thus given up to the dead men would have
yielded.

"They can keep it. I'll not plough it up," he
would mumble to himself with conscious virtue. " But
land was to be hed for the fencin' then, evidently, or
no Pettit would have wasted it on corpses that might
as well have lain in the churchyard."

Now, Aaron himself was in the wasted triangle, and
as his daughter Priscilla saw his coffin lowered into it
she felt a wrench of pity for him, because he never
again could see the wheat grow in the lot around him,
nor count how many dollars profit it would yield that
year to pay the interest on the mortgage. It was nat-
92

AN IGNOBLE MARTYR 93

ural that she should feel that he was really dead in
just that way, for the wheat lot was the only property
owned by the Pettits, and that mortgage their only
active interest in life.

When the funeral was over, the neighbors, as is the
custom in Xorth Leedom, came back to the house, and
sat in silence for half an hour in the little parlor.
The undertaker had given the silver plate from the
coffin lid to Prue, as the oldest child, and she hung it
up now with a sad pride over the mantel-shelf. There
were six other coffin plates there, the only decorations
on the parlor wall.

Her younger brother, who had left " the mourners "
and was in the kitchen, called her out impatiently.
" Are you going to put that horrible thing up there,
Prissy?" he said.

" Horrible ! " said Prue, aghast. " It is very hand
some, Bowles. It cost three dollars and sixty -three
cents. And why should I show disrespect to father? "

"Oh, if it is counted disrespect! — Prue, can't we
give these people a cup of tea? There are the Waces,
they have come ten miles, and they have to go back
without any dinner. And the Fords. Some tea and
doughnuts?" He looked anxiously into her face.

The heat rose into Prue's cheeks, and her eyes
shone. There was something delightful to her in
this bold proposal, for she had, unknown to herself, a
hospitable soul. She had never seen a stranger break
bread under their roof. But on such an occasion as
this —

"What would mother say?" she whispered. "Oh,
no, no, Bowles! I can't do it. There are ten of

9-1 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

them" —peering into the parlor — "ten. It would
take a quarter of a pound of tea; and then the sugar.
Oh no, we couldn't afford it! " and she went back and
sat down again with the mourners, comforting herself
that nobody would expect to be fed. In North Leedom
the folks did not eat in each others7 houses. It would
have been thought a wicked waste to " treat to vict
uals," as, it was reported, was the common custom in
larger towns.

This was no time, Prue felt, for her to appear
eccentric or extravagant; and it would have been
extravagant. Tea and cakes for ten would have made
a big break in the money to be saved for the fall pay
ment on the mortgage.

The Pettits during the next week took up the thread
of their daily life unbroken. The little four-roomed
house had, of course, a thorough cleaning. Under
takers and neighbors had left dust behind them. Mrs.
Pettit had grace to help her bear the pains which
death had left; but dirt she would not put up with.
The furniture was all taken out into the yard to
be sunned; the stair carpet, with its hundred neat
patches, was washed, dried, and tacked down again.
The furniture in the house was of the cheapest kind,
but it had belonged to Mrs. Pettit's grandmother, and
had always been cared for with a tender reverence,
not because of its associations, but for its money value.
Indeed, so much of the lives of the Pettit women for
generations had gone into the care of these speckless
chairs and tables that one might suspect a likeness
between the condition of their souls and that of the
filthy Fijian who worships the string of bones which
he polishes incessantly.

AN IGNOBLE MARTYR 95

Bowles despised the tables and chairs. But the
mortgage ! That was another thing — a thing so seri
ous that it seemed to overshadow, to choke his whole
life. John Pettit, his grandfather, in some great
emergency, had put the house under a mortgage, had
worked for twenty years to clear it off, and died, leav
ing the task to Aaron. Aaron had accepted it as a
sacred trust; every penny he could save had gone to
it. Now he was dead, and there was still a thousand
dollars due on it.

Mrs. Pettit was too nearly blind to work. Prue
sewed on men's seersucker coats for a factory in Bos
ton. She was paid sixty cents a dozen for them.
This paid the taxes and bought their clothes.

Bowles knew that his mother and sister and all of
the village expected him to take up the payment of
this mortgage as the work of his life.

The minister, old Mr. Himins, had said as much to
him after the funeral.

"It is a noble ambition, my boy," he said, "fora
man to own the home of his fathers free of debt. In
our New England towns there are thousands of men
and women struggling in dire poverty all their lives
with this aim before them."

This aim! What aim?

Bowles, sitting one evening under the old elm-tree
as the sun was going down, looked at the ugly, bare
little house and hated it. Had life nothing more for
him than — that ?

He looked about him. North Leedom was made
up of just such ugly, clean, bare houses. There were
no trees on the sidewalks, no flowers in the yards.

96 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

The people had been poor for generations, and they
had reduced the economy of their Puritan ancestors
to an art so hard and cruel that it dominated them
now in body and soul. To save was no longer a dis
agreeable necessity for them; it had become the high
est of duties.

The Pettits had always crept along in the same rut
with their neighbors. They would not buy sufficient
food to satisfy their craving stomachs. With each
generation they grew leaner and weaker; the sallow
skin clung more tightly to their bones ; the men be
came victims of dyspepsia, the women of nervous
prostration.

Each generation, too, carried the niggardly economy
a little farther. They "could not afford time" for
flowers nor for music; they could not afford to buy
books nor newspapers. They came at last in their
fierce zeal for saving to begrudge smiles and welcomes
to each other or kisses and hugs to their children.

They stripped their lives of all the little kindly
amenities, the generosities of feeling and word which
make life elsewhere cheerful and tender. If their
starved hearts, sometimes, like their bodies, gave signs
of hunger, they were only mortified at their own lack
of self-control. Their history was that of countless
families in New England villages.

Bowles Pettit, thinking over the lives of his neigh
bors and family, tried to judge fairly of his own. But
he was ashamed to find that he could scarcely think
at all, he was so hungry. He was a big, raw-boned,
growing boy; the nervous strain of the last week had
been severe on him. He needed food, and he knew

AN IGNOBLE MARTYR 97

lie would not have enough to-day. He could not
remember the day when he had had enough. He knew
how it would be. Presently the cracked tea bell
would ring, and he would go in to eat a small slice of
cold, soggy pie, washed down with a glass of cold
water. To-morrow morning for breakfast more cold pie
and a doughnut. For dinner, potatoes and cold milk
only. On Mondays, when Prue had to make a fire for
the washing, two pounds of cheap meat were boiled,
which furnished dinner for three days.

Bowles had no trade. He was what was called in
North Leedom "a helper." He could do a bit of car
penter or mason work, or paint a door, or plough a
field when called upon, for which he received a few
pennies. There was no opening in. the dead village
for any regular business. It was out of these occa
sional few pennies that he must support the family
and save the thousand dollars for the mortgage.

There was a slight quiver on the boy's cleft chin as
he sat staring at the mortgaged house. He had the
eager brain and fine instincts of the New Englander.
It was not a dull beast of burden on whom this yoke
for life was to be laid, but a nervous, high-bred ani
mal, fit for the race-course.

" Ah-ha, Bowles, my son ! " a subdued voice whis
pered over the fence.

He started up. It was Mr. Rameaux, an agent for
some orange planters in Mississippi, who had found
boarding for his little daughter in North Leedom that
summer, while he travelled about the country. He
was so short and stout that his fat smiling face barely
reached to the top of the fence. He thrust his chubby

98 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

ringed fingers through, the rails and wrung the lad's
hands.

" My dear boy, I came down from Boston this after
noon, and Lola met me with this terrible news.
What can I say? Your worthy father! 11 est cliez le
bon Dieu ! But you — poor child ! It is thirty years
since my own father left me, and still — I — " He
choked, and real tears stood in the twinkling black
eyes.

Bowles pulled him through the gate. The boy said
nothing. He had not shed a tear when his father
died. He had never learned how to talk or to shed
tears. But this little man's volubility, his gestures, his
juicy rich voice, with its kindly and sweet inflections,
affected Bowles as the sudden sight of tropical plants
might a half-frozen Laplander. He had hung about
Rameaux all summer whenever he was in the village.

" I came to make my condolences to madame votre
mere. And Lola — she also " — dragging after him a
child in a white gown and huge red sash, of the age
when girls are principally made up of eyes, legs, and
curiosity.

Together they entered the kitchen, where Mrs. Pettit
and Prue sat knitting, one on either side of the cold
black stove. The little man poured forth his " con
dolences " to the widow. Aaron's virtues, her own
grief, the joys of heaven, the love of le bon Dieu, were
all jumbled en masse, and hurled at her with affection
ate zeal. Prue dropped her knitting in her lap ; a red
heat rose in her thin cheeks as she listened. But Mrs.
Pettit 's large gray eyes scanned the pursy little agent
with cold disapproval. What did the man mean?

AN IGNOBLE MARTYR 1)9

Xone of Aaron's neighbors, not she herself, had wept
for him, nor talked much of his virtues, or his entrance
into heaven. Why should this play-acting fellow be
sorry for her? She resented his affectionate tone, his
fat body, his red necktie, the unnecessary width of
brim of his felt hat. It was all unnecessary, redun
dant — a waste.

She waited until he stopped for breath, then nodded
without a word, and taking up her knitting, began to
count the stitches. Kameaux, shocked and discom
fited, stood pulling at his moustache and shuffling
uneasily from one foot to the other. Lola, in the
mean time, had crept to Prue's side, and put her arm
around her waist.

The Eaineaux were not of good caste in Mississippi;
they were by no means well-bred people. The agent's
oaths and jokes, when alone with men, were not always
of the cleanest. But they came from a community
where men carried the kindness and pity of their hearts
ready for constant use in their eyes and lips. Even
the ungainly child now was giving to Prue eager
caresses such as she had never in her whole life re
ceived from father or mother.

"Your father is dead," Lola whispered. "My
mamma died two — two years — " and then she burst
into sobs, and dropped her head on the woman's lap.
Prue, with a scared glance at her mother, patted her
gently.

" Poor lonely little thing ! " she thought. Then she
noticed that the child's gaudy sash was spotted with
grease, and that the holes in her black stockings were
drawn up with white thread. "Tut! tut! poor dear

100 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

child! " she whispered, a motherly throb rising in her
own flat breast.

Mr. Eameaux, bewildered at his rebuff, was turning
to the door, but Bowles stopped him.

"You promised to speak to her/7 he whispered,
excitedly.

"Not now, my boy."

"Yes, now! Now!"

The little man dropped into a chair, fanning him
self with his ridiculous hat. He too was excited.
He spoke to Mrs. Pettit, but his eyes wandered to
Prue. "Madam, there is a subject — Your son, Mr.
Bowles here, and I have talked of it. If I may in
trude upon your grief — But I must first tell you
something of my home."

"Indeed? Your home, Mr. Rainmy," said Mrs.
Pettit, in her dry, shrill tone, " is the least of my
concerns." Then she turned her back on him. "Light
the candle, Priscilla."

Rameaux rose, red and angry.

"Mother," said Bowles, sharply, "I wish you to
listen to this man."

There was a meaning in his voice new to her. She
stared at him, and at the agent, who, after a moment's
hesitation, went on, growing fluent as an auctioneer
as he proceeded.

"There was a reason for speaking of Lamonte to
you, madam. It is a village near the gulf. That is
a rich country — the ground, fat, black; the trees,
giants ; the woods full of birds, and the waters of fish.
A man has but to set his traps and drop his lines and
lie down to sleep, and nature feeds him. And the

AN IGNOBLE MARTYR 101

air — so warm and sweet!" He took a step nearer
to True, who was listening. His eyes were on hers.
They were kind eyes, he thought — mother's eyes.
Miss Prne had a soft voice too. Her cheeks were
lean, bnt there was a pretty color coming and going
in them, and the lips were red and kissable. He and
Lola had a lonely life of it. "The air," he repeated,
awkward and bewildered, "is sweet with flowers.
You would like my house, Miss Prue, on the beach.
At night the wind in the magnolias and the waves
plashing on the shore make a very pleasant sound —
a — very pleasant sound." Pie quite broke down
here, but his little black eyes held hers, and it seemed
to her that he was still talking rapidly, passionately
saying something that she never had listened to be
fore.

"You told me about the place before, Mr. Rainmy,"
she stammered. " You said that the flowers —

"Hola! chut! I had forgotten! " he exclaimed, tug
ging at his pocket. " I sent for these. They came
to-day. You said you never had seen any." He
pulled out a small paper box. When she opened it, a
strange and wonderful fragrance startled the chill
New England air.

" Orange blossoms ! " explained Rameaux, with a
significant chuckle.

Prue said nothing. She took her box to the win
dow. The blood grew cold in all of her gaunt body.
What did it mean?

She had scarcely ever thought of love. She had
known but two women of her age in the village who
had been courted and married. The others had all

1C2 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

grown into old maids like herself. She never had
thought that she — He hud paid thirty cents postage
on that box! And for her!

That wonderful life dovrn there — little work, and
plenty to eat! — the warm, sweet air! the plashing
waves! In the mean time, the strange, creamy
flowers, with their heavy fragrance, seemed actually
to talk to her of this life and this man.

What was that he was saying? Urging her mother
to sell the house and go to Lamonte, where there was
a fine chance for Bowles !

"There is no opening for the boy here, madam," he
persisted. "I speak as a business man. Lamonte is
a live place. I go to start a cypress-wood mill, a
cotton-seed-oil factory. It is a boom. A young man
with Northern energy shall make money fast. Or, if
you will not sell the homestead, why not rent it?
Bowles, once settled in Lamonte, in two years — in
two months perhaps, if this boom lasted — could clear
off the mortgage." Rameaux spoke as he did when
driving a bargain — clearly, and to the point. "I
will give you this to consider," he said. " I will state
the matter now to Miss Prue from another point of
the view." He strode quickly across to her, and led
her authoritatively out of the kitchen.

"Mother, do you understand?" said Bowles, in a
high, sharp tone. "I can make money there hand
over hand. I will clear off the mortgage dretful fast.
I won't have to drudge here like a nigger slave till
I'm as old as father."

The face which Mrs. Pettit turned on him was set
and strained as it had not been when she looked at
her husband dead.

Ay IGNOBLE MARTYR 103

" You want to — go ? " she said.

"Yes, I want to go. I must get out of hero. I.
want enough to do; I want enough to eat! "

She looked at the hunger-bitten face and starving
eyes of the boy, a tragic sight enough if she had under
stood it. But she was simply bewildered. Most of
the people in North Leedom had that clayey color and
restless look which result from an ill-fed body and
a strong brain condemned for life to work upon trifles.
But they did not know what ailed them. Nor did
Mrs. Pettit.

"AYant to leave North Leedom?" she repeated,
with a contemptuous laugh. "Sech. fancies! You
always was ridickelous, Bowles, but I didn't think
you was quite sech a fool. Draw some water, child.
It's high time we was lockin' up an' makin' ready
for bed," looking at Lola, who was coiled up on a
chair, her big black eyes curiously turning from one
to the other.

The door into the yard opened, and Prue came
hurrying in. Her mother stared at her. She had
never seen her face burn nor her eyes shine in that
way, except when she had the typhoid fever twelve
years ago.

"Lola," she said, going up to the girl and catching
her by the shoulders — " Lola! "

" Yes, " said Lola, standing up.

Miss Prue pulled the child toward her as if to kiss
her. Her thin face worked; she panted for breath.
She caught sight of her mother's amazed face, and
pushed Lola away.

"Your — your papa wants you, dear," she said, in

104 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

a low whisper, every tone of which was a caress.
"I'll take you to him."

" You stop right here, Priscilla. Bowles can take
his daater to the play-actor," snapped Mrs. Pettit.

Priscilla dared not disobey. She was thirty, but
she was as submissive and timid as when she was six.
But she did follow Lola out on to the porch. The girl
stopped her there peremptorily, and stretching up on
her tiptoes, threw her arms around her neck.

"You're coining home with us? Papa said so.
Yes? Oh, goody! You'll come?"

"Hush-h!"

Priscilla dropped on her knees in the dark, and
strained the child tight to her breast. The blood
burned hotly through her whole body as she pressed
a light shamed kiss upon her lips, and then springing
up, ran back into the kitchen.

Bowles walked sulkily with Lola down to the road
where her father was waiting. She thrust her arm in
his and hung on it; she rolled her beautiful eyes
coquettishly ; she spoke to him with profound awe
and timidity. Lola, like many Southern girls of her
class, had given much of her short life to thought of
"the boys," and of how to manage them. She man
aged Bowles now completely. Her homage thrilled
him with triumph and self-conceit, which her father's
eager talk increased. His mother treated him as a
child. These people appreciated him, recognized him
as the shrewd Northern man who would make money
hand over hand in the South. He laughed loudly
with Kameaux, even tried to joke a little.

His sister, through the kitchen window, saw them

AN IGNOBLE MARTYR 105

standing by the gate. The moon had risen. Lola
leaned sleepily against the fence. Eameanx's sultry
black eyes, while he talked to Bowles, searched every
window in the house.

"Forme?"

Priscilla's knees shook under her. She hurried
to her mother, who was beginning to grope her way
up the stairs, and took the candle from her, trembling
so that she could scarcely speak. It seemed as if she
must cry and laugh out loud.

" Mr. Rameaux tells me that his house is all on one
floor. You will have no stairs to climb if you go
there, mother," she said.

Mrs. Pettit stared at her. "/ go? Bowles's brain
is addled enough, but he's not so mad as that."

She had reached her room by this time. Prue hur
ried in after her.

"Mother, it's not Bowles; it's me. If there w^as a
chance for me to go down yonder and give you a com
fortable providing would you go?"

Mrs. Pettit paid no attention to her. She was
unbuttoning her shoes, and had found a thin place in
one of them. She rubbed it with alarm, held it close
to her purblind eyes, set it down with a groan. " It
ought to hev lasted two year more," she muttered.

"Would you go?" said Prue, stooping over her with
a breathless gasp. " You should have as many shoes
as you chose, and the hot air even in winter, and
full and plenty to eat and wear."

Mrs. Pettit turned her dull calm face on her. " Why,
Priscilla Pettit! You've been listenin' to that Ram-
my's crazy talk too! For a fool, give me an old

106 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

maid! " She took up the worn shoe anxiously again.
"Think of me goin' outside of North Leedom!" she
said, with a hoarse, rasping laugh.

Priscilla, as she looked at her, could not think of
it. It was an impossibility ; as impossible as to make
the dead alive.

" Tut ! tut ! It's worn near through to the counter."

"Give it to me. I'll mend it," said Miss Prue.

"Your hands are like ice," said her mother, as she
took the shoe. "You'd better get to bed. There's
that lot of coats to begin on in the morning. You'll
have to be up by four."

"Yes," said Prue. She carried the shoe down
stairs. The coats lay in heaps in. the corner, tied
together by twine. Their raw edges stuck out. Prue
thought they would not have been so hateful if it had
not been for those raw edges.

Bowles was waiting for her. His eyes shone; he
looked bigger and stouter than before ; the very down
on his lip seemed coarser and browner.

"You are going too," he said. "Kameaux told me.
Lord ! such luck to come to us ! "

"Mother will never go, Bowles."

" Then leave her. Other sons and daughters marry
and go away. Cousin Sarah can take care of her.
We'll pay the mortgage, and pay Sarah for tendin'
her. Mother's rugged. She may live twenty year
yet. ;Tisn't fair you should slave forever."

He said much more, but Prue scarcely heard him.
She sat in the kitchen without moving long after
he had gone to bed. Somehow the raw-edged seer
sucker coats seemed to fill up her mind, and to bulk

AN IGNOBLE MARTYR 107

down, down, through her whole life. Eameaux had
pointed to them angrily last night, and said, " Send
that trash back to-morrow."

He wanted her to marry him to-morrow; to pack
up their things, and start for Lamonte next Monday.
He would stop in New York to buy her some gowns
to please his own taste. "A red silk gown and a
black-plumed hat."

" Think of me in red silk and plumes ! " thought
Priscilla, tears of sheer delight standing in her eyes.

Her mother coughed hard, and called to her several
times, while she sat there, to bring her medicine.
She always needed care in the night. Cousin Sarah
was a high-tempered woman and slept heavily.

When Bowles came down in the morning, he found
his slice of leaden pie and greasy doughnut, as usual,
on a plate on the bare table. 1'rue was at the ma
chine, a heap of finished seersucker coats beside her.

"I guess you were at work all night?" he said.

"I couldn't sleep," she answered.

"Are you goin' to finish all them things?"

She nodded, turning her wheel faster.

He looked at her face for a minute or two, and then,
for some reason, walked behind her, where he could
not see it. "Prue," he said, "are you always goin'
on nuikiii' coats?"

The wheel stopped, .. the thread broke. Bowles
waited, silent.

" Yes," she said, in a low voice. Then she threaded
her needle again.

108 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

"What else should she do?" said Mrs. Pettit, com
ing into the kitchen.

Neither of her children answered her; but presently
Prue got up suddenly, and going to her, gave her a
fond hug and kiss.

Mrs. Pettit started, amazed. It was a new thing
in her life; but, on the whole, she liked it.

Ten days later Bowles left North Leedom for Mis
sissippi. His hopes were more than answered there.
Lamonte did have the promised boom, and he made
money fast. In a few years he married Lola. But
long before that time he paid off the mortgage. He
did it for Prue's sake. Had not his life been success
ful, while hers was a miserable failure? His heart
ached with pity for her.

But we are not sure that her life was at all miser
able. From that night in which she made her choice,
a singular change came over her. For thirty years
she had done her dull duty faithfully, because, in
iact, there was nothing else to do.

Then, as it seemed to her, the gates were opened,
the kingdoms of the world were laid at her feet.

Of her own will she had given them up.

God only knew what the sacrifice cost her, but after
it she was a different and a live creature. She was
like a woman who has given birth to a child. She
had struck her note in life, and it was not a mean one.
She now looked out on the world with authoritative,
understanding eyes; even her step became firm and
decided.

When one climbs a height, the pure air expands the
lungs ever after. We always carry with us down in

AN IGNOBLE MARTYR 109

the valley the wide outlook which we have seen but
once.

True had now a life quite outside of North Leedom
and the raw-edged coats. When the pain and sore
ness had passed, her struggle began to exert pleasant
and tender influences on her. Stout, jolly Ixameaux,
with his twinkling black eyes and black moustache,
began to take on the graces and charms of all the
heroes of romance. When she read in the magazines
a poem or love story, her eyes would fill with a tender
light, and she would whisper, " I, too 5 I, too ! "

When she saw mothers caress their children, she
fancied she felt Lola's head again on her breast, and
her heart throbbed with happiness.

After her mother died, she tried to bring into her
life some of the things of which Bowles had told her
of his home in Lamonte. She planted roses in the
yard; she covered her table with a white cloth; and
sometimes a bit of savory meat found its way to it.
She visited her neighbors; she read novels; she joked
in a scared way.

On the occasion of her one visit to New Bedford
she went alone to a retail shop, and, blushing, asked
to be shown some crimson silk and black-plumed hats.
She fingered them wistfully.

"Are they for a young lady?" asked the shop
man.

"Yes — for a young lady," said Prue, in a low
voice. She held them a moment longer, and then,
with a sigh, went out.

Soon after this, Bowles, who was a bad correspon
dent, suddenly appeared one day, bringing one of his

110 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

girls, Prissy, with him. "Yes, she looks peaked," he
said that night as they sat on the porch, after Prue
had lovingly put the child to sleep in her own bed.
" The doctor said she ought to have bracing air for a
year or two. I told him I'd bring her to you. We've
got four, and she's your namesake. She does not look
like the Pettits, though."

"Her eyes are like Lola's father's," said Prue,
hesitating. " Is Mr. Kameaux well? "

" God bless me ! Didn't I tell you the old gentle
man was gone? Died in Cuba last spring."

"Died — last spring?"

Bowles, who was about to add that too much bad
whiskey had hastened his end, caught sight of her
face, and with a sudden remembrance stopped short,
and softly whistled to himself.

"Yes, in Cuba," he said, awkwardly. "Well, Prue,
I wras all right in bringing Prissy to you? You'll
take care of the chick? "

"As if she were my own," she said. "I thank you,
Bowles."

Soon afterward she went to her own room, and
kneeling by the bed, kissed the child's face and hands
passionately.

"She is very like him," she thought, opening, as
she did every night, a little box in which were some
yellow flowers. She fancied there was still a faint
fragrance breathing from them. " We will know each
other in heaven," she said, with a sigh, as she closed
the box.

But it may be as well, perhaps, that in this too she
will be disappointed.

ACROSS THE GULF.

THE Keverend William Imlay found a seat for his
mother in the Desbrosses Street ferry-boat and
placed her neat satchel and umbrella beside her. " I
think," he said, "I will go forward into the fresh air
at the bow."

"Take care of the draughts, William."
He folded his big yellow silk neckerchief more
closely about his throat, lifted his hat, and left her.
The other women were bothering their escorts as to
the chances of catching the train for Philadelphia,
but Mrs. Imlay was calm. Neither she nor William
had ever been late for a train or a meal : a glance at
her would tell you that. Smooth gray hair, inquisi
tive black eyes, close-fitting black travelling-dress,
white cuffs, jet brooch and buttons, — there she was, a
neat, compact package of fulfilled duties. She would
be smiling, efficient, and confident by a sick-bed, or
in her pantry, or leading a prayer-meeting; and you
could not but fancy that if Death tapped at the little
lady's door the call would not flurry her at all, as it
does disorderly people, but would fit nicely into her
methodic life, and she would trip on into heaven still
smiling, efficient, and confident.

Ill

112 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

Mr. Imlay came back presently, a faint curiosity
kindling his handsome features : " Mother, the famous
actress is onboard, — Mile. Clemence. That is she,
coming this way. I thought you would like to see
her."

"So I should, William," hastily putting on her
spectacles. "The tall woman in the seal-skin ulster?
Dear! dear! That ulster would cost as much as your
salary for two years ! Satan's wages are high nowa
days."

"Yes."

"Poor thing! poor thing!" said his mother. This
was one of the women, she thought, of whom Solomon
wrote, who stand in wait to drag men down into hell.
Still, she could not forget that she was a woman and
when a child had perhaps been innocent.

"She is very handsome," said Mr. Imlay. His
mother moved uneasily. Of course, she saw the
creature's beauty; but she ought to have been nothing
to William but a lost soul. " Something in her fea
tures reminds me of Miss Lowry," he said, deliber
ately bridging his nose with his eye-glasses.

" Oh, William! Clara Lowry is one of the loveliest
of Christian characters! And yet — Eeally, there
is something about the chin — For pity's sake, never
tell Clara of it!"

"Of course not."

The boat thumped into the pier, and the crowd
poured through the station into the waiting train.
Mrs. Imlay, on her son's arm, peered curiously about
for the seal-skin ulster. The sight of this woman had
strangely fluttered her. It was a glimpse into that

ACROSS THE GULF 113

brilliant wicked hell below the decorous world in
which she lived, to which pertained all of Satan's
doings, — cards, fashion, dancing, and, above all,
theatres. "Where did she go, William?" she asked,
as he seated her in a car.

" Into a parlor-car behind. There were two or three
gentlemen with her. Leading people. Congressmen."

"Oh, I suppose so," with a shudder. "Sit down,
dear. Well, I'm really glad to have seen her. One
ought to be reminded that there are such depths, here,
just about us. I do wonder what she was thinking of
then? " It was the very question she had asked about
the sea-lion in the Park yesterday.

" She made a very pretty picture, at any rate, " said
Mr. Imlay. "Remarkably good nose."

"You think a great deal too much of her nose. I
mean — I beg your pardon, my dear. But one hardly
expects a clergyman to regard such creatures from the
stand-point of their noses."

Mr. Imlay lifted his brow with mild complacency.
" They are entirely outside of our world," he explained.
"A person in my position must either try to convert
them or else simply regard them aesthetically as part
of the world's furniture. I could not convert Mile.
Clemence on the boat, so I regard her quite as I would
a tree or a bit of china. I approve their shape or
color, and I approve her nose. Do I make myself
clear?"

"Oh, quite, — quite so, William," hastily rejoined
Mrs. Imlay as soon as the gentle dogmatic ripple
stopped. She had not heard him: she was always
sure William would say the right thing. She was

114 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

counting the cost of that dress, — ulster, gold-mounted
satchel — why, the boots, even, could not be bought
under twenty dollars ! What would Clara Lowry say
when told about it? "I always gain new ideas when I
leave home, William," she said. "Travel is so — so
broadening."

" I wish you would go of tener with me, mother, " he
replied, affectionately wrapping her shawl about her
and rising. " Now, if you will excuse me, I will go
and look for Mr. Fordyce; he is somewhere on the
train."

Mr. Imlay could not find his fellow-minister, but he
sat down in a rear car. He wished to think over his
sermon, for it would be late before he reached Balti
more. He smiled to himself again at his mother's
idea of travel. A trip to New York ! She was shut
in too much to her little round ; church, the sewing-
circle, Ann the cook, — there was her world.

Mr. Imlay had gone twice to the great Church Con
ventions ; he had been as far south as Louisville, and
as far west as Chicago : so that he could justly claim
to know something of the world and of life. He
wanted to know more. His own mild dogmatizing,
his mother's amiable gossip, the squabbles between
the choir and congregation, even the discussion about
the new organ, grew stale and cramping to him. If
he could get outside, into the creeds, the unbelief,
the passions, the action, out there, he fancied he
could understand Christ and His errand better.
Still, there wTas great peril in such ventures. As
now, for instance, when he buttoned up his coat to
hide his white cravat and began to talk to a gentle-

ACROSS THE GULF 115

man in a mulberry velveteen waistcoat about beet-
sugar, he felt that he was boldly treading on danger
ous ground. To hide the cravat, to give up the pre
cedence of his holy calling, to talk as one ordinary
man with another, — was not this compounding with
Mammon?

But he soon became keenly interested in his beet-
sugar friend and his companions. He gathered that
they were a family or party of friends on their way
to celebrate somebody's birthday. All of them, even
to the grandmother, had the air of happy folk out on
a frolic. There were a couple of lads who swaggered
like old sportsmen, though neither blood nor powder
had ever soiled their guns or embroidered game-bags.
There were young girls with rosy faces under furry
caps, chattering and giggling, peeping at each other's
skates. There was a dumpling of a baby, which the
nurse carried about perpetually from one set of cousins
to another. There was a white- whiskered old gentle
man on the next seat to him, who scolded because the
stove-door was shut, or because the ventilators were
open, or because the banana-boy dropped books on
his knee. Mr. Imlay could not at first understand the
patience of the whole party toward this disagreeable
old fellow : they were as gentle with him as with the
baby; but presently he saw that he was blind.

He finally turned his ill-humor on Mr. Imlay's com
panion. "Beet-sugar now, Sperry?" he snapped.
"Last year it was tea-plants; and the year before,
silkworms. If it was only your own money that was
wasted, less matter. But you must always have
somebody to ride your hobbies. Here's Mrs. Finn,

V

116 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

now ! To my knowledge, she gave up two acres once
to your tea-plants."

A little woman wearing black and a widow's cap
looked up and laughed: "And, to my knowledge,
Uncle Shannon, many a cup of tea you had from them."

'•Poor stuff, Emily, poor stuff! You're a shrewd
farmer; but you'll never make tea pay. Nor any of
John Sperry's whims. Mushrooms! That was another
craze of his."

Mr. Sperry patted the old man on the back, and
winked apologetically to Mr. Imlay as for an ill-man
nered child: "Yes, mushrooms. There's no better
paying crop. I set Frazier at them in San Diego, and
Cobb in Honolulu, and old Eice in Australia. I may
say I have girdled the earth with mushrooms." Then,
in a deprecating whisper to the clergyman: "One of
the best-tempered men alive until — " touching his
own eyes significantly. Mr. Imlay nodded, smiled,
and rose to go with a regretful glance about the car.
How many good Christian people there were in the
world to whom one must give a touch and go-by !

When he reached the door only the engine was in
front of him. The rest of the cars, and his mother in
them, had vanished.

"Just divided the train at Newark," curtly ex
plained the conductor. "Other section's twenty min
utes ahead."

"But I have a lady in my charge."

"Can't help that, sir. You ought to have looked
out for the lady."

Mr. Imlay stared at the man, opened his mouth
irresolutely, and feebly pulled at his whiskers.

ACROSS THE GULF 117

"What is it? what is it?" cried the blind man.
"Some new trick of that infernal corporation?'7

Mr. Sperry came up, pulling down his waistcoat with
a business air, and suggested a telegram; the girls
looked sympathetic; Mrs. Finn timidly ventured an
anxious word or two.

"It's really of no consequence," said Mr. Imlay
with awkward dignity. " My mother has her ticket
and check." But secretly he was greatly pleased.
He had suddenly become of importance. By virtue
of his misfortune, he was adopted by this demon
strative family as one of themselves.

While he talked to the conductor his seat had been
taken by a boy and a tall, distinguished-looking girl.
The blind man put his hand on her head: "Is this
you, Janey? Did you get on at Newark? Why don't
you make room for me?"

"I'll go in the smoking-car," the boy said, jumping
up.

"]STo, Bob. You'll stay just here." The young
lady drew her father into the seat, and took Bob on
her lap, looking laughingly into his eyes as with her
firm white fingers she poked a cigar out of his pocket.

Bob chuckled sheepishly, but soon recovered him
self: "Father, I'm going to take Janey out rabbit-
hunting to-morrow. I'll lend her my boots for the
deep snow."

Mr. Shannon gave an impatient grunt : " Your sister
will have no time for such capers, sir. All my clothes
need mending." He settled himself with his head on
her shoulder and was soon asleep, while Bob sat, gig
gling and scowling, on her knees.

118 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

Sperry saw that Mr. Imlay was watching the group.
"Pitiful sight, sir," he whispered. "D'ye know that
since Mr. Shannon lost his sight that girl has sup
ported both him and the boy? Carries them both
right along. They're helpless as two babies."

"How does she do it? She is very young."

"Earns barely ten dollars a week. She's with
Kneedles. His plan is, work your people to death
like cart-horses and fling the carcasses out. Oh, I
suppose everybody's heard of Dan Kneedles? We're
all going to Mrs. Finn's farm to celebrate her birth
day, and I wrote to Dan to beg Janey for a day or two.
Well, sir, I had to pay him her full week's salary!
But she knows nothing of that."

Kneedles? Mr. Imlay had a feminine relish for
gossip. Was there not a Kneedles female college
near Newark? The young lady was dressed like an
ill-paid teacher. She coughed, too, now and then,
and had a hectic flush; but there was something stead
fast and durable about her, from the firm wrist which,
held Bob quiet, to the dark, slow-moving eyes.

While he was looking at her, there was a rasping
crash: girl, old man, seats, roof, tilted, disappeared.
Mr. Imlay clutched wildly at Sperry, missed him, and
was hurled forward. When he came to his senses he
was in absolute darkness, his right leg clinched
tightly; beside him he felt broken planks and some
thing soft and movable like a human body. A wind
of heat blew over his leg. The train had fallen from
a trestle bridge, and he was fastened in a car that was
on fire. He had read of people fastened in just that
way. They had been roasted to death. " Great God!

AC It OSS THE GULF

119

This thing is happening to me! J/e/" thought Mr.
Imlay. He had been so coddled and petted by his
mother from the days of his swaddling-clothes up into
his clerical coat and necktie, that blank amazement
was his principal emotion at finding himself in a ditch
of mud to the chin, with a fire close to his legs. At
a distance 011 the snowy field, he saw black figures
moving; he heard shouts and cries. He shouted, but
his voice piped thin like a woman's. The body beside

him whether man's or woman's he did not know-

struggled.

"Are they coming to us?" said a voice sounding
oddly calm to his frenzy. He replied only by fresh
shrieks. "Oh, they'll come," cheerfully. "I saw
Bob help father out. They'll come back for me."

It was the teacher, then? He did not care who it
was. He shrieked on. " The fire is gaining," he said
at last, exhausted, "and my leg is wedged in tight."

She began to tug wildly at the leg : it did not stir.
Then steps came near, and a dozen men crowded up,
peering in at the window.

The fire sent a sharp lash of flame across Mr. Imlay 's
foot. " Help, help ! Take me out ! " he yelled.

"There's a woman in there," cried somebody out
side.

"Janey! Janey Shannon !" shouted Sperry.

" I'm here ! All right ! I'm not hurt ! "

Her cheerful tone maddened Mr. Imlay. "For
God's sake, save me!" he cried; "I'm roasting to
death!"

" Here, Janey ! " Mr. Sperry smashed in the win
dow. " Xow, men, out with the lady ! "

120 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

But she pushed Mr. Imlay forward: "His leg is
fast. He's burning! Get this beam off his leg!"
she cried, tugging at it herself.

Mr. Sperry had an axe ; the men grappled the beam ;
it shook and moved. Mr. Imlay dragged at his leg.
"Oh, it's broken!" he moaned.

A flap of fierce flame struck between him and the
window, shutting him into this horrible death. He
hurled himself forward like a madman, thrusting back
the woman : " Save me ! "

He heard himself. It was a woman that he was
pushing back into the fire, — he, William Imlay.
"Take her out," he said, in a voice that wras almost
cool, helping to push her out himself. He was un
conscious when they got him through the window.

When he opened his eyes it was with a nausea of
pain. He lay in a large, gayly-furnished chamber.
A red-haired little man was at work at his leg. Miss
Shannon stood beside him, holding bandages, while
Mr. Sperry, a kerosene lamp in one hand, with the
fat fingers of the other patted him consolingly : "Tut,
tut! Come to yourself, eh? Nearly through with
your leg. Bad sprain. No bones broken."

"Where am I?"

"At Emily Finn's. You ought to thank the good
God you're anywhere." He stopped for a second, then
went on cheerfully : " Two of us were killed, — the
baby and Tom: the little chap with the gun, you
know? Well, well! they were fitter to go than us old
sinners, I reckon. Bob had his head cut. So we
brought you and him here."

"It's very kind of Mrs. Finn," glancing about for

ACROSS THE GULF 121

her in his writhings of pain with dignified polite
ness.

"Bah! What else would you have the woman do?
She's in the kitchen, making you a hot toddy. Noth
ing like hot toddy after a shock."

"Steady with that light," snapped the Doctor. —
"Xow," to Jane, "drop the lotion."

The lotion fell cool on the crackled skin. Jane
watched each drop anxiously. The bed was soft: a
delicious sense of repose, of being cared for, stole over
him. The one lesson of his life, so far, had been that
he ought to be cared for.

The Doctor, before he left, gave his directions to
Jane. Sperry began to blow up the wood-fire upon
the hearth. Mr. Imlay asked for a drink of water,
and Jane brought it to him. Tier gown was still soaked
with the mud of the ditch, but her head and throat
seemed to him purer and finer from the dirty folds out
of which they rose. Instead of taking the drink, he
stared at her. " You tried to make them pull me out
first," he said. "I heard you."

"Did I?" smiling. "It's all a blur to me. No
body knew what they did."

"You, at any rate, did the right thing." She had
forgotten his part in the affair, then? Should he keep
quiet and let it go at that? He took the water and
drank it. But he could not be quiet. Something
within him (not the immaculate William Imlay) was
crying out in an agony of shame and degradation. As
he gave her back the glass he looked her full in the
face : " I acted like a hound down there. I think I
must have been mad. I wish you could forget it."

122 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

She fairly stammered in her hurry to stop him:
"Hush! hush! Don't blame yourself. The fire, and
you fastened in, — it was enough to craze anybody."

What a noble creature she was! He would never
forget how she had tugged at that beam. If Jane
had been forty, and lean and scrawny, probably he
might have forgotten it.

Mr. Sperry caught an inkling of what they were
saying. After Jane was gone he came up : " Most
unselfish soul alive. She'd have done just the same
for you if you had been a tramp or a darky. "What
would you like for supper?"

"I want no supper," said Mr. Imlay curtly, turning
over.

Would she have done the same for a tramp or a
darky? He did not believe it.

It was not the pain in his leg that kept him awake
that night, nor even the shame of having acted like a
brute before these good Christian people, though that
was sore too. It was the sudden sight of the brute
within him, which he saw for the first time in his life.
He tried to put it out of sight, to recall that Eeverend
William Imlay whom he had known so long, walking
into the chancel of St. Basil, irreproachable, from the
Greek features, set in neat English whiskers, to the
sermon that he preached. Well, what was this man
Imlay? He preached generosity, self-sacrifice, high
thinking and living, to others, and went home to be
pampered by his mother and Ann, to find the day
spoiled if his toast was too dry or his shirt-collar too
limp. Was he nothing but a cheat and a hypocrite,
then? Had he never learned Christ? The poor gen-

ACROSS THE GULF 123

tleman took himself by the throat that night, and was
as miserable as any of us would be if we could push
aside our respectability and circumstance and face the
naked self inside with all of its possible meannesses
and an ties.

Usually, when he woke in the morning, the con
sciousness of himself, impregnable in respectability,
good taste, and piety, was an armor of proof to him :
other people touched him as through a brass plate ; but
to-day he was cowed and beaten, — a worm, and no
man. These strangers about him seemed to him to
have abnormal good qualities, — tenderness and gen
erosity. He was full of gratitude and admiration.
lie did not notice Mr. Sperry's red necktie and blaz
ing diamond scarf-pin when he helped him to dress
and wheeled his lounge into the wide low-ceiled par
lor. When, too, Mrs. Finn flew to heap his pillows
and to pat and purr over his ankle, it did not occur to
him that her soft crimson gown and airy manner would
not have been seen on any widow of fifty in St.
Basil's.

The lounge was drawn up to the wood-fire ; a great
tiger-skin lay in front of it; the breakfast-table, gay
with amber-tinted napery and red porcelain, stood in
the middle of the room ; outside, the snow lay in lonely
unbroken stretches for miles. While Mrs. Finn buzzed
about him, Jane patiently waited on her father and
Bob, who were both cross and grumpish, teasing, jok
ing with them, forcing them to laugh. Mr. Inilay
could not take his eyes from her when she was in the
room. This strange woman seemed more womanly to
him than any that he had ever seen. His interest in

124 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

her, he told himself, was wholly due to her having
tried to save his life. Still, he did observe the soft
curves of her figure as she stooped over the coffee-
urn, and her dark questioning eyes.

Mr. Imlay presently sent a telegram to his mother.
"Tell her," he said, "what has happened, and that I
am safe in the care of kind Christian friends."

Mr. Sperry wrote it, and then read it to Mrs. Finn
outside in the hall. "Add a message from me," she
said quickly. " Invite her to come to us at once : she
must be very anxious."

"ISTo, Emily. It would not do. I saw the old lady.
She would not get on with the profession at all. She
would think her boy was Samson in the hands of
Delilah and the Philistines."

Mrs. Finn tossed her chin and laughed, the color
rising in her cheeks.

"Of course she would," persisted Sperry. "Sup
pose she had seen you rehearsing your old Juliet at
him over his toast just now? Lord, Em! d'ye mind
when you first went on as Juliet, twenty years ago,
in Richmond?"

" Yes, indeed ! Shives was Romeo. He went into
Biggs's Minstrel Combination just after I married
John Finn. Do you know, this young man reminds
me of Shives?"

"You could make just such a fool of him, for all
your forty years, if you put your mind to it. How
that donkey used to go dangling round the country
after you ! And this young man — "

"That will do, Uncle George. I'm too old for that
sort of talk, " gravely.

ACROSS THE GULF 125

"Well, I was only going to say you had better let
Janey entertain him. She'll never damage any man's
heart. She stands and sings with her eyes on the
footlights, as solid as the gallery-posts."

Mis. Finn accordingly sent Jane in to read to Mr.
Imlay, and called in the farmer, to talk over the early
crops with him. But the angry heat still burned in
her face. Delilah, indeed! George Sperry's jokes
were always coarse. Mrs. Finn (or, as she was known
in "the profession," Belle de Vere) might have had
certain too salient points in her history thirty years
ago, but in the meantime she had been a faithful,
hard-working wife to John Finn. She was now a
shrewd farmer and manager, anxiously scraping the
dollars together to give her big boys a start in life.
When she had opened her house, with her heart full
of pity, to take in this wounded minister of the gos
pel, why could not his mother come into it without
fear of soiling her skirts? Delilah! Mrs. Finn's
heart was bitter within her against George Sperry as
she sat talking to Botts about celery-troughs.

Jane went in unwillingly to entertain Mr. Imlay.
She had her work to do. She carried in a big basket
ful of Bob's clothes to patch, and, giving her patient
a magazine, soon forgot that he was there. The girl
had neither the culture nor the ready tongue of Emily
Finn. Beyond a child's schooling, she had been
taught only to sing, dance, and the business of the
stage. She knew nobody but her father and a half
dozen other players, and them only in a business way.
The young girl's brain was not very nimble nor strong,
and the task of bringing clothes and food for three

126 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

persons out of ten dollars a week had thus far taxed
it to the extent of its powers.

Mr. Imlay watched her over his book. What
wretched old clothes she mended! How anxious she
was about them! Her one good winter dress was wet
last night, and she wore a faded gown which she had
long outgrown. It better showed the white arms and
the shapely foot, but it touched Mr. Imlay's heart with
pity. He had a nice taste in clothes. What patience
and tenderness were in this poor teacher's lovely face !
How it kindled at sight of her father and the boy!
Mr. Imlay wondered how long she would have to
carry that heavy burden. If he could secure her a
position somewhere, higher than in Kneedles's school?

Presently he began to talk to her, and naturally, of
the subject most interesting to him, — himself and his
sermons. "I had intended to prea.eh on St. John's
life to-morrow," he said, "and I think I had a new
view of it."

Jane dropped her sewing; her eyes turned on him
with a timid surprise and excitement which flattered
him greatly. It was the first time she had ever met
a clergyman, and that he should actually talk to her
of his sermon amazed and delighted her. If she could
only get Bob in to hear ! She was so anxious to make
a good boy of Bob. Though Jane knew nothing of
clergymen or church doctrines, and had sometimes
heard a good deal of ugly talk in the wings, she was a
decent, pure girl, and had naturally a devout soul. She
knew that her mother had been an Episcopalian, and,
wherever the troupe might be on Sundays, she would
steal off to a chapel and there join in the prayers, and

ACROSS THE GULF 127

in the afternoon would read to Bob out of an old
prayer-book and show him their mother's name on the
fly-leaf.

"How are they getting along?" asked Mrs. Finn
presently of Mr. Speriy, who had paid a flying visit
to their patient.

" Oh, capitally ! He is explaining apostolic succes
sion, and Jane listens breathless as if it was to Kean
in'Shylock.'"

So it came about that for a week Mr. Imlay and Bob
were left to Jane's care. Mrs. Finn, who was to play
the Queen in " Hamlet " next week, was busy trim
ming her robes with imitation ermine, and Mr. Sperry,
who was the heavy villain in a stock company in New
York, came and went every day.

During one of these visits Mr. Imlay began to talk
to him of Jane with his usual awkward dignity: "It
may seem intrusive in me, sir. But Miss Shannon
has been most kind and considerate. Some steps
should be taken to relieve her of this crushing weight
of responsibility. I regret to speak of details, Mr.
Sperry. But her salary in that school is absurdly
small, and I observe — I observe that — her self-
sacrifice amounts to actual suffering. Why, her gowns
really seem inadequate to protect her from the cold."

"Well, what can be done?" said Mr. Sperry, with a
puzzled, searching glance at him. " One could hardly
offer Janey clothes."

"Certainly not!" Mr. Imlay 's face burned hotly.
"But if some permanent relief could be devised —
There is a Home for the Blind in Philadelphia, to
which, by a little influence, her father could be

128 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

admitted. I think I could manage that. Robert could
be placed at school. Then the child could breathe."

"Why, you're a regular brick!" Mr. Sperry gave
him a tremendous clap on the back.

" I beg your pardon ! " Mr. Imlay drew himself up
stiffly.

" I beg yours. But men of your cloth are not often
such hearty good fellows, and you really took me by
surprise. Well, suppose the old gentleman and Bob
out of the way, what do you want done with Janey?
Ten dollars a week is not much; but, you see, it's a
certainty with Kneedles."

Mr. Imlay was silent. The question raised a sud
den unexpected storm of emotion within him which
frightened him. What did he want done with Janey?
What on earth was Janey to him?

Mr. Sperry, after pouring out a flood of opinions,
postponed the subject and hurried away to catch his
train. Miss Shannon was in the outer room, sewing.
"I say, little girl," he said, halting, "there's no need
of your telling your patient in there that you or we
belong to the profession. Heh? It might make him
uncomfortable."

"Very well. I don't want to make him uncomfort
able," said Jane indifferently, measuring her work.

" Kneedles will let you stay until Wednesday. On
full salary."

"Then I can finish these shirts," smiling and
pleased. " I have not had such a chance to sew for
years."

Mrs. Finn followed him out. "I'll buy her off
from Kneedles till Wednesday," he explained anx-

ACROSS THE GULF

iously. " She has made an influential friend in there.
Perhaps — " nodding significantly.

"There is nothing in that," said Emily Finn deci
sively. " She does not care a straw for him. Her head
is full of her shirts."

Mr. Imlay was curt and dry with his nurse all day.
What was this Jane Shannon to him? He read over
again a letter which had arrived from Miss Clara
Lowry. Mr. Imlay was not engaged to Miss Lowry,
but all St. Basil's Church expected him to marry her.
There really was no reason why he should not marry
her. She was handsome, refined, dignified; his mother
was fond of her; there was no better blood in the
State than that of the Lowrys ; she had a settled in
come. She was already energetic in the church : she
managed all the fairs, taught the men's Bible-class.
He tried to think of her as his wife, sitting by his
study table, planning out his sermon, — which, indeed,
Clara was quite competent to do. What had Janey's
rosy, eager face to do in the picture? Why did he
seem to feel continually her firm, light touch on his
ankle? He was angry at her and himself. He dressed
his foot himself that afternoon, and then, the moment
she came in, he asked her to adjust the bandages.
Imagine the high-bred decorous Miss Lowry dressing
a man's bare foot. But this warm-hearted, tender
girl would do it, if need be, for a tramp or a darky, as
Sperry had said.

He turned his back on Jane and pretended to be
asleep, and then furtively watched her as she sat by
the window, in the fast-fading light, stooping over her
work. How thin her oval cheek was ! and her breath,

130 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

too, came quick and short. He did not like that.
She had said once that her mother had died of con
sumption. If she had an easy life, she might be
saved. If she could go a little farther south with
some one who would watch and care for her —

If — Mr. Iinlay flushed hotly from head to foot.
He started up 011 the sofa. It seemed to him as if all
the world must have heard his thought.

In the meantime, it had grown so dark that Jane
had dropped her work and was singing to herself some
pathetic ditty about a dead child. Mr. Imlay had not
heard her sing before : he listened with astonishment.
Presently he forgot to be astonished : his throat choked ;
the tears crept clown his cheeks. Deep, wordless
meanings were in the voice. Surely the girl's soul
spoke in it, and spoke to his. How rapt was the look
in her eyes as she sang!

Jane was amused when she saw his tears, but good-
naturedly sang on. She was used to see people cry
when she sang that ballad, — the fine ladies in the
boxes and the boys in the gallery. For herself, she
did not like the song : she had such trouble with the
high C. As for the rapt expression, she was wonder
ing just then whether Bob could possibly pull through
the winter with that overcoat.

As the poor young fellow on the sofa listened, pas-
s ions and hopes such as he had never known surged up
within him. It was not the dead baby that wrenched
his heart and drew the hopeless longing tears to his
eyes. It was the girl yonder sitting in the yellow
light; it was something in her which had been lost
out of his own life. He must have it! No matter

ACROSS THE GULF 131

what St. Basil's or his mother or Miss Lowry
thought, ho must have it.

] fe called to her. She rose and came quickly up
to him. "Jane!" he said. He was hoarse: he
coughed to control his voice. He was quite right in
what he was going to do. It would not do for him to
be swept away by any flood of passion, but Jane was
the only real thing to him in the world. Even if you
reasoned about it, there was a fibre, a genuineness,
about her : her hard work, her unselfishness, even her
fun and laughter, made Miss Lowry seem like a chilly
shadow. He took her hand. "Jane," he said again,
looking up into her face.

" What is it? Can I give you anything, Mr. Imlay? "

"You can give me — " he began passionately, then
he coughed — " a cup of tea. No, — water."

"He does not know his own mind half a minute,"
thought Jane, amused. She brought both the tea and
water, laughing at him, making playful, girlish jokes
about his whims which would have shocked Miss
Lowry.

Mr. Imlay did not know his own mind on that day,
or on Monday or Tuesday. On Wednesday he was to
go home. One hour he felt himself possessed by a
demon, an honest, fierce creature who must have
Jane, who could not live without Jane; the next, he
was the calm and critical William Imlay, making con
temptuous pictures of himself bringing home this
bride. She would be expected to take the leading
part in the religious and literary sociables and the
aesthetic teas of church society, — Jane, who had
but one shabby merino gown, who adored chromos,

132 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

who asked the other day if the Europeans were gen
erally pagans. He was a fool, — a mad fool. And
yet — yet —

Finally, he determined to do nothing until he had
consulted his mother. She was wise: she always
looked after his best interests. He would lay the
whole matter before her.

When he was ready to start on Wednesday morn
ing, he found, to his surprise, the whole household
prepared to take the train with him.

"Mr. Sperry and I have business in Philadelphia,"
explained Mrs. Finn, "and Janey joins Kneedles
there."

For an hour and a half longer, therefore, he would
have her in sight. He felt an absurd boyish rapture
of which he was ashamed. She was with her father
in the front of the car: the old man was unusually
kind and protecting in his manner to her, and she
seemed tired and depressed. Mr. Imlay sat watching
her. What rare distinction was in her face and fig
ure! St. Basil's had never seen anything like that.
If he should bring her among them, it would be like
setting up the Venus of Milo beside fashion-plates !

When the train stopped at Philadelphia he hobbled
up to her. She looked up. " Is it really time to say
'Good-bye'?" she said, her chin quivering a little.
Jane was an affectionate creature, and very few peo
ple had been kind to her. The quiver of the chin
meant just so much, — nothing more. But it touched
Mr. Imlay to the quick.

" Ko. I am not going on to Baltimore to-night. I
will stay here, — with you," he said, speaking thick

ACROSS THE GULF 133

and fast. As lie handed her from the car his fingers
were icy cold.

Jane watched him, wondering, as he sat opposite to
her in the carriage, stiff and silent, a pillar of propri
ety in his high hat and upright collar, beside Mr.
Sperry, fat, joking, and, as usual, many lined as to
clothes. Yet there was a new meaning in the quick
furtive glances of the younger man which made her
breath come quicker with a pleased terror. It was
not altogether an attraction of the blood which held
Mr. Imlay there bound to this woman. There was a
certain force and directness in her character and life
which was totally new to him. He knew nothing of
the world outside of books and the calm society of
wealthy people whose manners and religion alike were
pliable, inoffensive, and elegant. There were plenty
of gentle, prettily-dressed girls in his church, singing
hymns sweetly, working beautiful Bible mottoes. But
this shabby teacher, tottering through her youth with
this selfish old man and boy on her back, — the sight
stirred him like high distant music.

The carriage stopped at the door of a boarding-house
on a side-street. A lean, pimply man, smelling strongly
of brandy, was standing smoking on the steps. He
hurried out, tapped Janey familiarly on the back as
she alighted, and went with her into the house.

"Business!" said Mr. Sperry. " That's Kneedles.
He's sharp on the trigger, I tell you! "

" But that is not a gentleman ! " said the clergyman,
his pale face flushed. " He is not a fit person to have
control of — of a school for young ladies. Miss Shan
non must sever her connection with him at once. I
insist — "

134 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

"Don't insist on anything just now," said Sperry
with a worried look. "Come in; come in. She'll be
out presently."

Mr. Imlay waited in. the hall until Jane came out
of the parlor. Mr. Kneedles preceded her. He stared
at the clergyman's white neck-cloth, nodded to Sperry,
and turned to the door. " You'll come down at once? "
he said authoritatively to Jane.

" Oh, immediately! " She was excited and pleased.
Her eyes sparkled; that peculiar fine smile was on
her lips which had become so dear to William Imlay.

As she went out on the steps he followed her : " I
will go with you. I have something to say to you."

"As you please." I Hit she hardly noticed him as
she tripped lightly on, looking as if she could scarcely
keep from singing or laughing. The slanting evening
light struck through the quiet street. He observed
with keen pleasure that the passers-by invariably
glanced a second time at the radiant face under the
picturesque wide hat. If this delicate rare creature
were his own!

" Mr. Kneedles is going to double my salary ! " she
broke out at last. " I shall have more work ; but that's
nothing. Twenty dollars a week. And we stay here
all winter! There are schools that I can afford to
send Bob to now, where he will be with gentlemen's
sons. And there are lots of dear little houses for
thirty dollars a month, — bath-room, gas, marble fac
ings, — simply perfect! I always wanted to keep
house. I'm a first-rate cook, Mr. Imlay. Gracious !
It's too good to be true!" She swung her umbrella
and laughed out loudly from sheer gladness. Mr.

ACROSS THE GULF 135

Imlay shuddered. But no matter! These trifling
gaucheries would soon be cured.

They were passing an open square filled with aisles
of leafless trees., The snow lay deep and untrodden
beneath. On the other side of the pavement was a
high brick Avail covered with flaming placards. It
was a quiet place ; he would speak to her here : " You
speak as if this man Kneedles were to control your
future. I think that I — Come away ! Why do you
look at those things?" he cried, interrupting himself;
for she had stopped in front of a great poster and was
examining it with beaming eyes. It represented a
frowzy female of gigantic proportions, with a liberal
display of neck and arms, being dragged by the hair
to a precipice by a stalwart villain. BeloAv, enormous
red letters notified the public that this was Miss Violet
Dupont in her great and world-renowned role of the
Rose of the Prairie.

"You should not look at those vile things," he
repeated gently, laying his hand on her arm.

She drew back so that his hand dropped. "Vile?"
she said in a low tone. "Vile?" She grew exces
sively pale as she stood looking at him steadily.
"You do not understand, Mr. Imlay. I am Violet
Dupont."

He did not understand even now, nor until she had
gone on speaking for some time. He was always
unready of apprehension. He stared alternately at
her and at the placard.

" Mr. Sperry said not to tell you that we were actors :
you had prejudices. But — 'rile' ? 1 did not think
anybody — " She put the back of her shut hand up

136 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

to her mouth with a choking sound, turned, and walked
quickly away.

Mr. Imlay followed at a distance for several squares ;
then he came up to her side. Whatever battle was
raging within him, the almost unconscious habit of
stiff politeness was still dominant. " I am sorry if I
appeared rude," he said. "That picture is really
gross, vulgar; and you — you seemed the purest thing
on God's earth to me. I cannot associate you with
it." His eyes, as he spoke, were fixed on her with
the same vacant, amazed survey as when she had first
dealt the blow.

"You may associate me with it, then," said Jane
tartly : " I am Violet Dupont. I suppose that picture
isn't very pretty, — I don't think, myself, it's a flat
tering likeness of me, — but it's worth a good deal to
me in my business. I never had my name on the
posters before, and I did not expect to have my pic
ture billed for years to come." And the soft lovely
eyes glanced at it with triumph.

For there it was facing them again. On every
blank wall, in the windows of the barber-shops and
beer-saloons, Violet Dupont, with her bare neck and
brawny arms, stared out at him. He turned to the
Avoman whom half an hour ago he had meant to make
his wife. There could be no doubt of it: there was
an appalling likeness to her in it, and she was delighted
with that horrible notoriety. Yet how pure she
looked! He stopped, shuddering. She passed on,
and he almost ran to overtake her.

As for Jane, she neither saw him lag behind nor
run after her. She had forgotten that he was there.

ACROSS THE GULF 137

Twenty dollars and her picture billed ! If this sort of
thing went on, Bob could go to college. And Mr.
Sperry had wanted to put him to a trade ! There was
a sweet little house with lace curtains at the windows :
something like that, now could be managed; and a
new suit for her father. Her own street-dress was
terribly shabby. She anxiously eyed the gown of
every pretty girl who passed her. There was not one
of them whose heart was filled with more innocent
desires than was poor Jane's; but how was Mr. Imlay
to know that? The vulgar publicity which would
have been loathsome to him undeniably thrilled her
with triumph. She stopped at the back entrance to
the theatre.

"Is this the place?"

"Oh, Mr. Imlay! I thought you had gone. Yes,
this is the place. I am to be a super to-night, but I
rehearse for the Rose to-morrow," laughing to herself
at the alarm and horror in his face. " You won't
come in? Xo. I know: you have prejudices. Good
bye, then. I shall see you at dinner."

Prejudices? As she passed down the dark little
alley-way a gulf opened between them impassable as
death. Yet he would drag her back over it. This
good pure girl tottering on the edge of hell, — should
he not put out his hand to save her?

The terrible emergency almost forced William Imlay
to know his own mind. He wandered about the streets
until nightfall. Once a brother-minister met him,
and overwhelmed him with congratulations on his
escape in the train: "En route to Baltimore, eh?
No, 110 : come and take tea with us, and spend the

138 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

night. It is our lecture-evening: perhaps you will
make a few remarks to my people?"

"I have business," pleaded the wretched man.
"There are friends whom I must see."

Jf Dr. McLeod knew that his friends were strolling

o

players, and his business to marry one of them !

The good Doctor went home to his wife greatly
troubled. "I met William Imlay just now/' he said,
" and he is completely shattered by that accident. I
don't like his looks at all: his mind seems unhinged.
I wish I had made him come home with me."

"I wish you had: we have a very nice tea. It
would kill Mary Imlay if anything should happen to
that boy," said his wife.

About ten o'clock Mr. Sperry ran against the clergy
man behind the scenes of the theatre : " How ! what !
Mr. Imlay? How did you come here? " he exclaimed,
shocked at his wild, haggard face. " Come into this
room," for the young people were staring and laugh
ing at the clerical necktie, which he had taken no
pains to hide.

"Xo. I will stay here. I must see Jane. I must
make her give up this life."

" Yes, yes, of course," said Sperry soothingly. "But
if you would talk to her to-morrow — "

Mr. Imlay shook his head obstinately. "McLeod,"
he muttered, "wanted me to preach to-night. But
my work is here. He that saves a soul alive — "

"Very well. Janey will be off presently." Mr.
Sperry was hurried, and proceeded to make up his
face at a glass, by means of cork and burnt umber and
a gray wig. It was an anxious, not unskilful bit of
work.

ACROSS THE GULF 139

Mr. Imlay, left to himself, was startled by the fact
that tliis was all work that was going on about him.
A theatre, he had supposed, was a brilliant, bewilder
ing fairy-land, the haunt of wild dissipation; players
were lost souls who spent their time in idle jollity and
open sin. There was no enchantment and no vice
which it would have surprised him to see behind that
fatal curtain. What he did see was a dusty floor
and the plank backs of trees an inch thick, dirty can
vas castles and stormy seas, a table set with tin gob
lets and a dish of cotton ice-cream. Where were the
enchantment, the wicked sirens, the deluded lovers,
that everybody knows revel behind the scenes? Half
a dozen workmen with their sleeves rolled up pushed
the heavy board screens about; in an inner room some
men and women, mostly middle-aged, were ranged on
wicker settees, * many of them with paper books in
their hands, which they studied assiduously until they
were called. They seldom spoke to each other, and
looked worn and fagged. The players who ran off
the stage with a laugh or song seated themselves
instantly, dull and silent. Mr. Imlay's mind may
have been unhinged, but he had sense enough to see
that this was not hellish sport from which he had
come to take Jane, but work, — hard, steady drudgery.
The fun, the gayety, belonged to the audience : behind
the curtain there were few jokes or laughs. The only
idle person was Jane's blind father, who sat dozing in
the corner.

"He always brings Janey and takes her away,"
explained Mr. Sperry. " I bet you that fellow Kneedles
will make her work now for her twenty dollars ! She

140 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

has three super's parts to-night, — nothing to say, but
changes her dress ten times. Worst of it is, she goes
right out of a heavy witch's costume, — fur cloak,
and wraps over her head, — wet with perspiration, into
a ball-dress, bare neck and arms. You've no idea
of the draughts on that stage. I shiver even in my
cloth clothes. Here she is."

How superbly beautiful she was ! But nobody but
himself seemed to think of her beauty.

Mrs. Finn, in trailing cotton-velvet robes and gilt
crown, hurried after her: "Put this shawl round you.
You are shivering, and your head is like fire. — This
must be stopped, George Sperry, at once," she con
tinued angrily. " If you don't speak to Kneedles, I
will, though I break my engagement by it. It is
sheer murder for a girl with delicate lungs."

Jane, who was coughing violently, checked herself
with a laugh : " Nonsense, Emily ! jSTever was better
in my life! I can't expect to be paid twenty dollars
for doing nothing. The truth is," she added vehe
mently, "I never can play a speaking part: that's the
truth, and you know it. All that I can earn must be
by posing. Don't speak to Kneedles. Don't take
our bread and butter away."

Mr. Imlay stepped forward. But the life seemed to
be suddenly sapped out of his arguments. He had
meant to snatch this soul from the edge of hell. But
was she on the edge of hell? "I came," he said form
ally enough, "to persuade you to leave this mode of
life. It does not seem to me — "

"I understand all that," said Jane impatiently,
standing very erect. "You have your prejudices

ACROSS THE GULF 141

against our profession, Mr. Imlay, but it is my trade.
It is all I can do. I have myself and — and others to
support. I cannot teach, nor write, nor paint. What
other work is there that would bring me in twenty
dollars a week?"

Was it really a trade, a mere question of work and
wages?

" The temptation— " he faltered.

"/ don't think," said Mrs. Finn sharply, "that
Janey is exposed to more temptation here than if she
were a shop-girl obliged to dress decently and feed
herself on three dollars a week. — There, George ! cur
tain's up."

A shrill boy's voice squeaked out something at the
door, and in a moment the room was empty. Only
Jane was left. She looked at Mr. Imlay, hesitated,
and then went directly up to him and laid her hand
on his arm. There wras little intellect in her dark
eyes, but there was an almost motherly affectionate-
ness, a common-sense which seemed to the irresolute
man before her strangely durable and strong. " You
are very kind to me, " she said. " But you had better
go away now. Clergymen don't come here. Don't
worry about me. It's hard work, but the pay is good.
It's the right thing, — " she stopped, then repeated
with emphasis, — "it's the right thing for me to stay
with Kneedles."

She urged him gently toward the door. He had not
asked her to be his wife, — she did not know that he
loved her : " One moment, Jane ! " stopping on the
threshold.

"No. They are calling me. Good-bye." She smiled

142 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

and kissed her hand. He fancied that the tears stood
in her eyes. " It is the right thing for me to do —
to stay just here." Then the door closed on her, and
he found his way out into the dark street.

One day a year later the Eeverend William Imlay
with his wife passed the theatre in Baltimore.

"'Miss Gertie Swan in her original rdle of the Hose
of the Prairies. Kneedles's great Combination! ' " he
read. "I wonder where — ' He stopped abruptly.
Young Mrs. Imlay turned, smiling, but when she
looked at him she stopped abruptly. She had fine
tact, and seldom asked questions.

A moment later they met, coming out of the theatre,
a stout man and a pretty little woman in a Gainsbor
ough hat. Mr. Imlay stopped and held out both
hands. (He was a firmer, more decided, stronger
man now in every way than when they had known
him.) "Clara, here are some old friends of mine,"
he said. — " Mrs. Finn, my wife. — Mrs. Imlay, Mr.
Sperry."

There was a good deal of hand-shaking and curious
glances on both sides. The handsome bride was very
courteous and affable, though her nerves were greatly
shaken. Actors! William's friends! Could she
touch pitch and not be denied? Though, indeed,
these poor players really seemed to talk and look
quite like other human beings.

Just before they separated, her husband said, " Mr.
Kneedles, I see, has another Rose. Is : — ? "

"You did not hear about Janey?" said Mr. Sperry

ACROSS THE GULF 143

with a sudden sobering of his pompous manner. " X o !
-Tell him, Emily."

Mrs. Finn did not speak. There was an awkward
silence.

"Xo, I did not hear/' said Mr. Tmlay loudly.
Something in his tone made his wife look at him. She
put her hand quickly on his arm, but he did not see
nor feel her.

" Janey is gone," said Mrs. Finn briefly.

" Yes, " said Sperry. " It was that infernal Knee-
dies. He saw the child was ambitious to earn twenty
dollars a week for her father and Bob, and piled on
the work. She took cold the night you left. Me and
Emily warned her, but she wouldn't give up. Lung-
trouble. It only lasted a week. It was pitiful to
hear her worry about those two, — Bob's schooling
and the old man's overcoat, — everything. But the
profession took it up; raised enough to get the old
man in an asylum and to send Bob to college. Emily,
here, has taken him home with her boys. So the poor
child died content. Yes, sir," said Sperry, after he
had looked around and waited for somebody to speak,
lifting his hat with a little dramatic flourish. " Yes,
sir. Poor Janey has saluted the world ! "

"Come, George!" said Mrs. Finn abruptly. "We
have a train to make. You forget."

Mr. Sperry was very hearty in his adieux, shook
hands twice with the bride (to whom Mrs. Finn only
bowed with great stateliness), and drew Mr. Imlay
aside to say, "I'm sorry I told you about poor Janey.
I'd no idea it would knock you up so. But it's all
right with her now."

144 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

"Yes," said Mr. Imlay with deliberation. "It is
all right with her now."

His wife did not speak to him until they had walked
a long time through the quiet streets. Then she said
gently, "That was a sad story. Very sad."

He made no answer.

"But what," she persisted, "can we do in such a
case? There is such a wide gulf between us and them."

"Is there?" said Mr. Imlay, looking at her va
cantly.

She thought he had not understood her, and said
nothing more.

A WAYSIDE EPISODE

AYEAK or two after the war, Mr. Edwin Woot-
ton, of New York, with his wife and a gay party
of young people, made an exploring journey through
the South. It was his own idea, — open spring wagon,
camping-equipments, guns, fishing-tackle, and all, —
or, rather, he thought and told everybody that it was
his own idea. Now and then his wife had a habit of
mentioning some plan as utterly impracticable, where
upon he would instantly seize on it and work himself
into a fever to prove to her that nothing could be
easier. After they had carried it out successfully, he
would cackle over her in triumph for months as a
convert to his own original scheme.

"I never did expect," said Mrs. Penryn-Clay on her
return from France, " to find Emily Wootton so domi
nated by that fussy little imbecile that she has mar
ried. She is as silent, mild, and gentle as one of
those model, cow-like wives that one sees in a farce,
but nowhere else in America. I thought Emily rather
clever as a girl."

" She thought herself clever, " replied Mr. Erancis-
cus (Miss Fanny, the young people called him) who

145

146 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

dropped in every day now to talk over all that had
happened in their set while she had been gone. " She
thought herself immensely clever, I assure yon. Why,
Mrs. Clay, Emily Senders at seventeen set out to be
eccentric, — an Advanced Female ! Oh, she did ! "

He giggled, settled himself comfortably back in his
easy chair, and pushed his beard caressingly up through
his hand : " She left the convent where all the girls
were who were to be debutantes that winter, and went
to a Methodist Female College. It's a fact, — Metho
dist! Plunged into Latin and the sciences. But the
Methodists soon proved to her that she was a dunce.
Then she fancied that she was an artist, and coaxed
old Bonders to take her to Italy. It took her a year
to find out she was fit for nothing at that : so she came
home, when her mother took her in hand and mar
ried her to little Neddy Wootton. The old lady had
planned that match when Emily was ten years old
and Neddy inherited his uncle's money."

" I am surprised to hear that of Emily. The Souders
always have been conventional to the last degree.
They never take a step out of line," said Mrs. Penryn-
Clay, whose chief glory it was that her position lifted
her above all rules.

Mr. Franciscus poised the tips of his long fingers
together, looking at them thoughtfully, his face sober
ing into a look of ferret-like sagacity. He had a
sleuth-hound acuteness for nosing into the personal
peculiarities of his friends. "Now, I don't think,"
he said deliberately, " that that is true of Emily. She
is a radical. There's fermentation going on under
that demure face of hers. I suspect that it is she who

A WAYSIDE EPISODE 14T

keeps Neddy uneasy and perpetually drives him into
such queer starts, while the little man is so horribly
afraid of violating propriety. He is running about
now trying to find out what everybody thinks of this
Southern trip. 'Of course/ he says, 'the proper thing
for us all to do this summer would be to build at
Newport. But the cads are creeping in even at New
port. I'm going to trees and mountains. You are in
no danger from cads when trees and mountains are
your companions.7 '

The old lady laughed: "'Cads7? Poor Edwin!
Of course your memory does not go back so far, but
I remember the grandfather "VVootton distinctly, — a
retail grocer. I have heard that he went out himself
for orders, — white apron, cart, and all. P>ut I never
saw that. His son, Neddy's uncle, did something in
sugar which brought in their millions."

"Ned knows all that, and knows that we know it.
Yet only yesterday he remarked to me — actually to
me — that blue and silver had always been the colors
of the Wootton liveries."

" I thought there wras a compact among all Ameri
cans to keep up these little illusions for each other, "
said Mrs. Clay, smiling up into the eyes of the ancient
beau, with a most significant lack of significance in
her face. He tittered uneasily, knowing perfectly
well that she was thinking of his uncle Job Francis-
cus, who is a tanner in New Jersey to this day.

As soon as Mr. Wootton found that his expedition
was approved by "Miss Fanny," who echoed the opin
ions of society, he buzzed happily about his prepara
tions. Underneath his snobbishness he was a generous,
thoughtful little man.

148 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

"We will take my sister Jane," lie said to his wife.
"Poor Jane! she abhors fashionable watering-places
ever since her deafness came on. And there's your
father: it will be just the thing for your father's
liver."

" People will mistake the wagon for an ambulance,
and you for an agent of the Sanitary Commission,"
said his wife dryly.

"Tut, tut! Well, I suppose that is true," with a
forced laugh. He watched her uncomfortably for a
few minutes. " I thought, Emmy, you would like to
feel that you were helping somebody by my wild-
goose-chase. But it's too bad to bore you with a lot
of invalids."

She said nothing, and he turned to his paper dis
contentedly. A year ago you could not have bored
her by invalids. She spent half of her time visiting
orphan asylums and blind old paupers and teaching
in industrial schools for beggars' children. But she
had shut her door on them all one day, and her heart,
too, apparently, on all pity or tenderness.

" Really, I thought you would have liked that plan, "
he said presently, returning to the charge.

" Two or three boys and girls would be made per
fectly happy by such a journey," she said indiffer
ently, " but it would be impossible to take them. The
trouble would be endless."

" No trouble at all ! " bouncing up. " The very
thing! Your cousin Zack, and Will and Louis Pet-
trow, and the Perry girls ! None of them over four
teen. It will be a four-weeks picnic! I tell you,
Em, that's the best idea I have had yet! "

A WAYSIDE EPISODE 149

He carried it out. The children were nearer his
own grade of intellect than men and women would
have been; and as for Mrs. Wootton, she was very
happy with them. She was an indolent young woman
at home, but on this journey she was a middle-aged,
motherly matron, fussing about their wet feet, doctor
ing the boys for coughs, putting her arms around the
girls' waists whenever they came near her. She had
never had a child of her own.

The ravages of the war, especially in Virginia, were
then fresh, and stared them in the face at every stage
of the journey. Mr. Wootton, who had been fiercely
loyal while the struggle was going on, was just as
intemperate now in his sympathy for the South.

" I swear, Emily, I feel personally responsible for
every burned barn or new-made grave," he said. He
was perpetually offering money on all sides and being
snubbed for his offers. Another trouble he had, quite
as heavy as the desolation of the South, — which was
the fear that the planters would mistake him and his
party for ordinary folk. He fraternized readily with
the mountaineers or guides, and kept his own impor
tance carefully out of sight. But when they came
near a town or a handsome dwelling he brought Simon
the valet into full view. Simon wore the blue-and-
silver livery.

"And I am so thankful I had the Wootton crest
put on all our trunks ! " he said. " It is unusual,
to be sure, but it impresses people at once. You are
not careful enough about these things, Emily."

The young people laughed at him among themselves,
but paid that exaggerated homage to his wife which

150 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

boys and girls are apt to give to a woman of beauty
who is a social leader in the world which they will
soon enter.

"She is- too indifferent to be a leader anywhere,"
said Dora Perry. " She is too indifferent even to lead
her husband or to feel contempt for him. He would
simply drive me mad."

They had stopped at a little inn at the opening of
a gap in the mountains in Southwestern Virginia, and
the girls were on a porch looking up the misty defile.
Mrs. Wootton joined them before Dora had finished
speaking. The others grew silent, uneasily, but Dora
said readily, " We were just talking of the qualities
necessary to make a leader in society. What do you
think they are, Mrs. Wootton? "

Emily looked down at the little girl's keen, intelli
gent features, already under better control than her
own, and laughed.

" You will soon answer that question better than I,
Dora," she said, seating herself beside them. "As
for society, as you call it, when I think of it here it
reminds me of one of those glass boxes which you see
in an apothecary's window, in which a few gold-fishes
and minnows swim round and round, eying each other
year in and year out, and bumping their noses against
the sides."

" You speak as if it was a sort of jail ! " cried Dora
indignantly.

Mrs. Wrootton answered only with that pretty set
smile which they thought so charming.

"It seems to me the most desirable place in the
world, " persisted the girl ; " I mean, of course, " smil
ing, "the glass case where only the gold-fish swim."

A WAYSIDE EPISODE 151

"Yes. You, probably, will never bump against the
sides," said tlie lady carelessly.

Dora looked at her perplexed a minute, and then
said tartly, " How far is Mr. Woottoii going to take us
into these dreary hills? We are leaving the large
plantations quite behind us; and I did want to see
something of the upper class in Virginia. Nelly
Hunter spent a winter in Richmond before the war,
and she says they were so delightfully exclusive.
Money counted for nothing. She gave me letters of
introduction to half a dozen of the old families. She
said, even if I wasn't out, I might be making desir
able social connections for the future."

"Very true," said Emily. "But, unfortunately,
Mr. Woottoii intends to go up farther into the hills."

Dora went into the house. Mrs. Wootton sat look
ing up the gorge, over which the sun threw slanting
yellow streaks, like flame, from behind the opposite
peak. The path was narrow, and the overhanging
hemlocks on either side nearly covered it. It led up
into the ranges of the mountains beyond, which
towered mysterious and inscrutable. Mrs. Wootton's
face was turned toward them, and Zack Souders sat
at her feet, watching her. Zack had that admiration
for her which a romantic boy of fifteen usually cher
ishes for some woman old enough to be his mother.
She took the place of all the heroines of whom he had
ever read in poem and novel who were lonely and
unrecognized in the world. His dislike for her good-
natured, insignificant little husband was the more
bitter because he had no opportunity to show it. If
he could only have proof that he tyrannized over

152 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

Emily ! If he had any chance for an outbreak to relieve
her from his cruelty! Instead of that, Neddy was
sure to come tiptoeing along presently, smiling and
offering them an open box of caramels. Zack was
always impatient, too, witli Emily's neat, nndramatic
dress. Its calm propriety never expressed any emo
tion whatever. If her hair were ever dishevelled, or
if she would only stretch out her white arms wearily
occasionally, like all the unhappy married women in
modern novels.

"What is it you are looking for?" he said at last.
" Your eyes always seem to me to be searching, —
searching for something you have lost out of your
life."

Emily laughed. " Don't be melo-dramatic, Zack,"
she said, looking down kindly at the boy.

"Is it anything that I can help you to gain?" he
persisted, his face lightening with excitement. " Tell
me what you were wishing for then."

"What was I wishing? That I was a squirrel, or
fox, or wolf, — some wild creature that could go up
that path into the woods and stay there. I should
like to know what the life of an animal has in it."

At that moment a man came out from under the
porch on which they stood, and cast a quick, curious
glance up at her, then passed up the street of the
drowsy little hamlet. He had a tall, sinewy figure,
and was clothed in a hunting-shirt made of deer-skin,
and short breeches of the same, covered with dust; on
his feet were leather soles strapped like sandals; his
knees and throat were bare and tanned the color of the
leather; his long red hair and beard were untrimmed,

A WAYSIDE EPISODE 153

and on his head was a cap made from the skin of a
coyote. He went with a steady, loping stride up the
gorge, not once looking back, — though the sight of a
beautiful, richly-dressed woman in that corner of the
earth must have been startling enough.

The hunting-shirt and wolf-skin cap summarily
knocked Zack headlong out of his sentiment. " Hello ! "
he shouted wildly. "Is that one of the bear-hunters
from Tennessee you told me about?" leaning over the
railing of the porch to call to the innkeeper below.

"Xo, it ain't. They hain't no such lookin7 beasts
as that. He's no hunter. He's a rank stranger.
Xobody knows whar lie belongs."

"Did you ever see him before ?"

"Yes; onct he come along hyar, about a year ago.
He stays up in the mountings. ])on't bring down
fish, nor skins, nor iiothin'. Hain't no call up thar,
as I kin see."

" An escaped criminal, perhaps," said Zack to Emily.

Xight had fallen with a suddenness startling to
Emily, who had never lived among the mountains.
She strained her eyes to look into the gorge, when out
of it came a shout something between a yodel and the
bay of a hound nearing its prey. She fancied that it
broke out of the sheer ecstasy of the man at plunging
again into the woods, and had an odd feeling that it
was sent back to her. It ended in a high musical note
that cut through the night-air and left it more dead
than before.

" Hark to that fellow ! " said Zack. " There is your
wish fulfilled, Mrs. "\Vootton. How do you like it?
He is finding out what an animal's life is like, pretty

154 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

fairly. But I can't imagine you, clothed in skins like
the cave-women, climbing mountains or swimming
rivers."

"No," said Emily, smiling. But what ailed her?
As she sat leaning over the railing, her chin in her
palm, her thoughts rushed out beyond her control.
Usually she held them in check, even without her own
knowledge. The man yonder, — there was no law,
no rule of propriety, to hamper him: he could lose
himself in the woods and shut the world out, — wholly
out. If a man could lie on the grass at night, with
nothing but the rustling trees and stars overhead, he
would know if they had any tiling to say to him; that
is, if there was anything to say anywhere.

Down below her, Dora and Louis were talking
over their last letters from New York, — how the
Courtney s had married Anne at last to a rich Calif or-
iiian, and how Betty Matton had a new idea at her
reception in the way of floral pillars, and how the
Perots had gone to Paris for draperies for their draw
ing-room. Had life anything to say to her but this,
— receptions and floral pillars and draperies? She
had heard of nothing else since her childhood. She
was walled into this little world of society, of gossip,
of insignificant competition and more insignificant
ideas, as into a jail-cell. For one day to be alone, to
climb the mountains, plunge into the rivers, to be
man, beast, anything that was free to gratify its own
instincts and passions, good or bad! No river had
water enough to cool the heat in her blood. She had
heard in church something of the water of life. God
knows, there was in her a horrible thirst. She fancied

A WAYSIDE EPISODE 155

if she could shake herself loose from every tie and go
back to nature it would be quenched. She sat quite
motionless, the pretty smile fixed on her mouth. It
did not even occur to her to fear what Neddy would
think if he should find out his real wife under the
charming leader of society whom he knew. He never
would find her out. She always felt as if she were
wrapped in countless folds of deceit when she talked
to him.

Emily "Wootton was not only a fashionable woman,
but by inheritance a strict sectarian. She had been
run, when a child, into a mould of doctrines, church-
going, and propriety. Her creed, like her grammar,
her gowns, and her touch on the piano, had been mod
elled on the highest standard of the decorous and pious
suburban town where she was born. Her Scotch-
Irish father (whom she always remembered as seated
by the lamp, reading Barnes' Notes, in his tightly-
buttoned coat, his gold spectacles across his lioman
nose), — was it any of his blood in her that prompted
her to run wild like a stag or a satyr?

Emily laughed. She had a keen sense of the ridic
ulous, unlike most women, especially when it touched
herself.

"Did you read that story of the Maori chief the
other day?" she said suddenly, turning to Zack.
"He had been converted to houses and clothes and
civilization, when one day a paper collar tickled his
ear. He dragged it off and trampled it under foot.
'It's a little lie! ' he shouted. 'And all your clothes
are lies ! And your compliments and houses and trade
and talk of religion! All little lies! ' And he rushed
back to the wilderness again."

156 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

Zack looked with a shrewd speculation into her
face. "After he turned savage was he satisfied?" he
said. "Did he find what he wanted?"

"There is the supper-bell," said Mrs. Wootton, ris
ing and brushing the fallen leaves from her dress.
"Will you ask Simon to bring some of the older
sherry from the wagon, Zack? Mr. Woottoii did not
like that which we had for dinner."

In a week, Mr. Wootton had pitched his camp up
among the mountains, far beyond the reach of civilized
intruders. He built a hut for Emily and the girls,
with the help of Simon, who, when his livery was laid
aside, turned out to be a very handy Connecticut
Yankee. Neddy and the boys kept up a watch-fire,
and slept over it in turn every night, supposing that
they were keeping guard against bears and panthers.
They lived in ecstatic expectation of a leap, a growl,
and a fight for life.

"Every man likes to go back and be a savage at
times," said Neddy, rubbing his ringed fingers as they
sat around the camp-fire one evening. "Now, you,
Emily, care nothing for nature : I can see that. You
are bored. You want to feel lace about your wrists,
and carpets under your feet, to be comfortable."

"Yes," said his wife.

It was true that she was disappointed. Nature had
no mysterious message for her. She was often left
alone here with the towering hills about her, and the
gray old trees whispering together, and the dome of
air above full of color and life and motion. She saw
that there was an infinite quiet and content in them all.
But she was not quieted nor contented by it. What-

A WAYSIDE EPISODE 157

ever this awful secret was, she had no hold upon it.
Tt was with her precisely as when her heart swelled
with a song that ought to silence heaven itself to lis
ten and she uttered a cracked piping falsetto, or as
when, years ago, she felt herself inspired with a poem,
and had written miserable rhymes — vapid and pre
tentious.

"Yes; I am sure," she said to Neddy, "nature and
I have nothing in common."

"It is because you do not go to work rationally, my
dear. If you would study geology, now! Or I could
give you a few facts about trees, for example, that
would make the woods seem like a new world to you.
There is that cedar, for instance. That is the wood
out of which the clothes-chests are made. Capital
preventive of moths. Or that yellow pine. It is
exported for flooring to — • Halloo! What is that?"

A man plunging through the thicket crossed the
light of the fire. He carried on his back half of a
deer freshly killed. Mr. Wootton and the boys
hurried to meet him. "You've had good luck to
day?" said Neddy, in the hearty, brotherly fashion
with which he met men who were hopelessly below
his class.

"Oh, fairish," slinging down the venison and wip
ing his face. It was the man of the wolf-skin cap.

Edwin examined the meat: "Perhaps you have
more than you want of this venison? I wish you
would sell me some of it."

"Sell?" he laughed. "Up here money counts for
nothing. But," hesitating, "I'll willingly give you
the venison for half a dozen cigars such as that which
you are smoking."

158 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

"Bring some cigar-boxes, Simon."

"The antlers are fine. Will yon have them?" he
said, turning to Zack after he had chosen the cigars.

"Oh, thank yon. But the price? I don't smoke."

"And I am not in trade. Pray take them." And,
with a smile and a nod, he disappeared in the thicket.

"He speaks English like an educated man," said
Zack.

"He is educated in cigars, at least," said Neddy.
"He chose the finest brand. He's in hiding from the
police, I suppose. Murder or burglary, no doubt.
What else could drive such a fellow to live like a
beast? But one can't send word to the authorities,"
staring with his mouth a little open up to the tree-
tops for the telegraph-wires which were not there.

The next day Mrs. Wootton walked up the ravine
with her sketching-book. Simon was in sight in the
eninp. The others had gone down the mountain to
fish. After she had been at work awhile, she heard a
step behind her, and, raising her head, saw the stran
ger.

"I hope I did not startle you, madam," he said,
removing his cap. " I have something here which I
thought you might use. If you would allow me?" —
waiting for permission before he came near enough to
hand it to her. It was a feather from an eagle's
wing. "I'll tell you the truth," he added hurriedly :
" I made this the excuse to see you again. It is three
years since I have spoken to a woman."

Emily's breeding did not fail her, even in the
presence of a possible murderer in this solitude. She
held out her hand for the feather as though she had

A WAYSIDE EPISODE 159

not heard his last words, her eyes brightening as she
took it. "I will have it made into a pen,'7 she said,
examining it deliberately. "It was good of you to
bring it to me. Will you sit down?''

lie took his seat on the rocks before her. They
looked at each other a moment, not with the crude
curiosity of a savage and a fine lady brought face to
face, but as equals hesitate in a drawing-room, secretly
and swiftly gauging each other before they speak.
Emily fully appreciated the difference. The man,
despite his uncouth clothes, was clean, and his skin
ruddy. He had a cool, controlled eye.

"Did you shoot the eagle in this range?"

" I did not shoot it. Whatever I may be, I have
not the blood of a bird on my soul, thank God. I
pulled the feather from its wing."

" You climbed to its nest to do it ! "

"Oh, that is nothing," moving uneasily. "Any
boy in these mountains can do that."

She was silent a moment. There were no small
ideas common to herself and this man of the woods.

"You do not scruple to kill deer?"

"I only shoot one now and then to keep myself
alive. A bit of meat satisfies me for weeks. There
is plenty of food in the growth of the woods, if you
know how to find it. Then you have the satisfaction
of getting your living as animals do, direct from the
earth." He watched her as he spoke, as if trying the
effect of his words on her. She remembered now that
he had overheard her outburst to Zack. It had made
a kind of secret understanding between this man and
herself, which gave meaning to his words. It was

160 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

this which had brought him back. Evidently he was
comparing his life and thoughts with what he guessed
of hers. "I," he added, "came to the woods because
there is nothing to be sold or bought here, nothing to
be made or lost. A man here owes no duty to any
other man; he can find himself out; he gets back to
his original conditions."

" I always supposed," said Emily, in her most indif
ferent voice, working diligently at her sketch, though
she was burning with curiosity to drag out his secret,
" that only the fervor of religion or a great grief could
drive a man to live as you are doing."

" I had no grief. As for religion — " He stopped
short. Presently, with a significant laugh, he said,
"Why should not a man go to the woods instead of
to Europe to hide? I have no doubt the men of your
party believe that I am here to escape the penitentiary
or the gallows."

Mrs. Wootton looked up sharply, her pencil uplifted
in her fingers ready to make a stroke, and scanned his
face steadily for a full minute.

"/do not believe it," she said quietly, and finished
shading her leaf. But her heart thumped hard under
her shawl. He was no criminal. As honest a soul
as her own looked back out of his eyes, but there was
an uncertain gleam in them now which frightened
her. He did not speak for some time, and she did not
look up again. Then he got up and leaned against a
tree, restlessly pulling down the branches and tearing
off the leaves.

"I am here because I was tired. I tried one
business after another. I was a bad artist, and an

A WAYSIDE EPISODE 161

editor, and a teacher; then I went to help Walker
out with his fight in Nicaragua. I was one of the
first to go to gold-digging in California. I threw up
the claim just as it began to pay. I got so tired I
couldn't stay to see it out. Then I fought in the war
with Sherman. When the army disbanded, my peo
ple got me into business in Philadelphia. Oh, they
thought I was in luck! It was such a fine opening
for a poor devil! But, great God! who could stand
that?"

Emily began to speak, but he hurried on without
heeding her :

"Drudge, drudge, day in and day out! Give up
your whole big life to earn the food to live with!
And the straight streets, and the rows of red houses,
and the crowds of people all drudging to keep them
selves alive! I was sick of the. whole miserable busi
ness in a month's time. The sight of the crowd going
by — the same man and the same woman, with differ
ent noses and eyes, a million times repeated — came
to be a horrible nightmare to me."

"What did you do?"

"I broke away from them. I came here. You
don't stare at me or think me mad, as they did?"

"No," she said calmly, rubbing out a false stroke.

"Yet even in the woods," he said, after a minute's
silence, "one must strut and bear apart. I wear this
ridiculous stagey toggery because it keeps men away.
The good folks down in the villages look on me as a
Cain, and even the revenue officers fly if they catch
sight of me." He laughed, and looked for the moment
like a hearty good fellow who cracked many a joke
with himself alone under the sky.

162 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

"You do not mean to stay here? You will not
spend your life in the woods?"

"God knows. I cannot tell what I may do to-mor
row, any more than any other animal."

Emily closed her book. Her fingers shook, and a
queer suffocation came into her throat. It was so
new a thing to her artificial life to come face to face
with any human being in this way. If she could
stretch out her hand to help him? What did it matter
to her whether guilt or madness had driven him out
of the world?

" You cannot waste your life here, " she said, invol
untarily showing her excitement in her voice. "I
can see that you are a man of power and of education.
You have duties — "

" Duties? " he laughed ironically. " If I went back
to the world to-d&y I should find you all glad to be
rid of your duties, if you had my courage to throw
them off. Don't I remember 'society'? Is it any
different now? Don't men, generation after genera
tion, sink themselves and give up their talents and
ambition for their children, who turn out smaller and
meaner than they half the time? Don't clever women
tire of their stupid husbands and grope about for con
genial souls?"

"You are right/' said Emily, rising, with a ner
vous laugh. "Undoubtedly you are right." She did
not know what she was saying. When she heard his
last words, she felt as if the man had come close to
her and put his hands upon her. Edwin was coming
up the hill, and hurried forward, smiling. She did not
hear what he said. She saw him talking to the stran-

A WAYSIDE EPISODE 163

ger, and that they laughed. She herself spoke. But
it was all far off from her, as though she were asleep.

Clever women tiring of their husbands, and groping
about for — ?

She went down through the camp to a great rock by
the creek and hid behind it. Now she was alone.
Nobody could drag out her naked soul in public here.

Was it that which ailed her? Was she tired of
her husband and groping about for a stronger man to
love? And it was apparent to even this half -mad
vagabond?

Emily Woottoii was a worldly woman, but she
had been as pure and stern in her wifely creed as
Lucretia. The blood of generations of Scotch Presby
terians flowed thin and tepid in her veins. She had
never flirted when she was a school-girl. There had
not been a spark of coquetry in her nature when
coquetry would have become her age. Now, when she
was a middle-aged woman, she was groping for a con
genial soul ! It was but yesterday that she had read a
popular novel in which the American fashionable
married woman was depicted as a church-going Ninon,
enacting dramas of passion with every man she met
except her husband, and she had flamed into righteous
indignation at it as an indecent libel. Now this
ghastly portrait was set up before her as her own
likeness. Was it true?

Mrs. Wootton sat hidden by the thicket. She peeped
out at her husband as he fussed over the camp-fire, as
if she feared to look at him. He was fussy and con
temptible in many ways. She had never told herself
so before. But she saw it now. She had never

164 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

realized that she had married a man less than herself.
She knew it now.

Was it this that had ailed her? This horrible
emptiness of life, — was it only the want of a real
support, of a live love? If it were so? —

The supper was ready long before Mrs. Wootton
came up into camp.

"You are fagged out, Emmy. Your clothes are
wet with the dew," buzzed Edwin. "Take some
coffee and go directly to Led. Zack and Perry went
down to the cross-roads and brought up the mail. I'll
come and read the letters to you."

"I don't care for letters. No, I want no coffee,"
she snapped fretfully, and crept off into her tent. She
despised him, but she loathed herself. He was petty
and shallow, perhaps, but she — she was like the rest
of American Ninons, ready for her drama of love with
some other man.

After an hour or two the miserable woman began to
cry. " I did not know that I was so bad, " she told her
self. "I'm sure there never was anybody else. But
it's all so empty, — empty! " She lay awake through
the night, with her hands over her face, unconscious
of how the time passed, until she was suddenly aware
that the dawn was breaking and that Edwin had not
come into the tent. She started up, threw on her
wrapper, and looked out, her heart heavy with guilt.
The camp-fire was built some live yards distant. It
burned brightly, and her husband sat beside it on a
log, a note-book open on his knee. She went up to
him. "Why are you here, Edwin?" she said, her
voice hoarse. "You wish to avoid me? You think

A WAYSIDE EPISODE 165

we are unsuited to eacli other? You are happier
alone?"

"Bless my soul, my dear, wake up! You don't
know what you are talking about." He laughed,
quickly closing the note-book and putting it into his
pocket. "Come, go back to the tent, Emily. It is
chilly and wet here." He rose to lead her back, and
wrapped his coat about her. Something in his man
ner struck her. It had never been so quiet or author
itative. There was a sense of relief in it to the
hysterical woman.

"Let me sit with you here awhile."

" Very well."

He piled up the logs, wrapped a rug over her feet,
and sat down again : " Do you see that saffron tinge
on the fog below? Just there the sun comes up."

But his wife, with her back to the fog, was peering
into his face : " Something has happened, Edwin, that
you are keeping from me. What is it?"

He half rose, sat down again, put his hand into his
pocket for the note-book, and pushed it back : " You
have keen eyes, Emily. It is only a matter of busi
ness. I will talk it over with you when we reach
home, " he said, in the quieting tone which a man uses
to a fretful child.

" No, now," she persisted. She saw by the kindling
fire how pinched his features looked. " If it is trouble,
let me share it. You have always kept trouble from
me before, " with a sudden glow of gratitude when she
remembered how entirely he had done it.

''That is only what every man does, of course.
This, — this — " He began to speak once or twice,

166 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

and stopped, keeping an eager, anxious watch on her
face. " It is Payes and Burtman, Emily. They have
failed. I was a silent partner."

" Oh ! Then you have lost — a great deal? "

"Everything."

"Had you no investments in Western lands? You
told me so once."

"In Nevada. Mining. But I sold out in May.
No ; absolutely every dollar I own will be swept away.
The partners are each responsible for the obligations
of the firm. I never should have gone into it. I
see that now. But it was done for the best."

" I am sure of that, Edwin," she said cordially. All
her strength and loyalty rose to support him. Through
the day that followed she was eager, energetic, and
gay, helping with the hurried preparations for return.
It did not once occur to her to question whether she
loved her husband or not, or to criticise him. She
had too much else to think of. They were going to
be wretchedly poor. There was all that blank future
to paint in her thoughts. Mrs. Wootton had no data
to help her in this work. Between the starved women
with baskets and shawls over their heads who came
to the back-area door at night, and the mechanic's
fat wife in her stingy purple silk and cotton gloves in
the back pews at church, there was a vague range
of life down there below like the circles in Dante's
hell. She was about to plunge down into it. So far,
she felt nothing but exhilaration, — a keen sense of
adventure, as if it were a journey to Labrador, or a de
scent into a coal-pit. Of only one point she was cer
tain: she must learn something of business. Being

A WAYSIDE EPISODE 167

the stronger of the two, much of the direction of
their future course would naturally fall to her. Edwin
would be crushed by this fatal mistake and the con
sciousness of his weakness and incompetency. She
thought with delight how generous she would be, how
seli-sacrificing. No matter how hard their strait of
poverty, not a word of reproach should ever pass her
lips.

To-day Edwin certainly was not crushed. She
found herself, like the others, working under his
direction. How prompt and firm and cheerful he was !
She found time to say to him, "As soon as we reach
New York, your better plan would be to place your
affairs wholly in my father's hands. He can bring
order out of them, if possible." Mr. Woottoii glanced
at her. Her tone was slightly authoritative. "He
will keep you from making any more such slips," she
added, smiling pleasantly.

"Very well, Emmy. We shall see."

Zack Souders was near them, on his knees, packing
a gun-case. When Edwin turned away, he blurted
out his thoughts, as usual: " You don't know, I see,
how Mr. Wootton became entangled with Payes and
P>urtman, or you would not have said that. I heard
it from my father a year ago."

"What do you mean?" said Emily.

"When you and he were up the Nile, he left his
affairs in your father's hands, with power of attorney,
and so on. Mr. Souders believed Payes and Burtman
were going to make millions in the China trade, so he
sold out the Nevada investments and put all your
husband's money into their concern."

168 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

"Are you sure of that?"

"Quite sure. I heard my father say then it was a
terrible mistake, and one which Mr. Woottoii himself
would never have made. He said, too, that there was
no man in New York with a clearer head for business
than Edwin Wootton. I tell you," said the boy, his
face flushing hotly, "because I know I have sometimes
myself hardly been fair to Mr. Wootton."

" He never told me that it was my father that had
ruined him. And he never would have told me, " said
Emily quietly. But throughout the day the boy saw
that sjie was under the influence of stronger excite
ment than could be accounted for by her father's act.
Her husband, who had always been grateful for the
most chilly signs of affection from her, was perplexed
by the silent, humble, deprecatory manner with which
she hung about him. It increased after they reached
New York and conferences between him and his part
ners took place, at some of which she was present.
Could this keen, clear-headed, inexorably honest man
be finical, snobbish little Neddy Wootton? It is not
often that a wife sees her husband as men see him.
"When she does, it has a lasting effect upon her for
good or ill. Emily had known that Mr. Wootton was
a kindly, generous fellow : she thought of it as part
of his weakness. She had not known of the broad,
wise charities which now first came to light when
funds to carry them on had failed, nor had she recog
nized the prudence that managed them, nor the
simple, devout faith which had prompted them.

She waited for months before she told him that she
knew her father's share in the matter, simply to watch

A WAYSIDE EPISODE 169

liis expedients to conceal it from her and to save her
from pain or mortification. She felt a keen delight
at his tender care of her, understanding for the first
time that it had been always about her.

"Why did you hide that from me, Edwin?" she
said, when at last she spoke of it.

" I knew it would hurt you less to think me in fault
than your father," he replied simply; "and of course
I wish to save you all the hurt I can now, Emily."

If she really had been groping about her for a
stronger man to lean upon, she knew now that she
had found him. Fortunately, Neddy was just then
too busy to fuss about his sciatic nerve or to wonder
what people thought of him ; and as for the coat of
arms and liveries, he had forgotten them in whet
stones. His old friend J. 0. Tobias, of Connecticut,
had discovered an opening for his whetstones in
California, and proposed to Neddy to go out as agent,
promising him a partnership if he could make the
thing go.

Ten years later, some Eastern capitalists who were
visiting the Pacific slope drove with a party of San
Francisco men one afternoon out to inspect the Woot-
ton seed-farm.

"Not Neddy Wootton that I used to know?" said
one of the visitors. "He was no end of a swell, — a
poor fal-fal creature, with not an idea beyond his
tandem and waxed moustache."

"Edwin Wootton this man's name is, and he is
from New York. But he is a long-headed fellow ; —

170 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

never has failed to see a good chance nor to use it.
California brings out the stuff in a man, if there is
any. He's not one of our rich men, but he's a solid
one."

There was the usual collation and speech-making,
and then the visitors scattered about the grounds. A
party of them met Mrs. Wootton in the garden, and
were presented to her. She showed them the poultry-
yards and colonies of bees that were now a sort of
corollary to the farm, but she did not say that they
had been begun by herself to help her husband when
every dollar counted in their weekly income. Her
little son trotted along beside her, holding her hand :
it was easy to see that they were comrades. She was
a tall, slow-moving woman, with a low, feminine
voice, and seemed for some reason to impress the
visitors more than anything they saw, as it Avas only
of her they spoke as they drove back.

"That is a solitary life for a woman of that kind,"
said one. "She is wasted there."

"I doubt if she thinks so," replied a friend of her
husband. "There is always that singularly steady,
tranquil look shining in her eyes."

Somebody on the back seat answered more energeti
cally than the occasion seemed to require: "Because
she has what she needed, — work and children. A
woman at a certain age wants a baby to nurse and
something to do. That is nature. It is usually
women that have neither who go groping about for
congenial souls or female suffrage, or some other
devilment to fill up the gap in their lives."

"You speak as if you had known Mrs. Wootton
before?" said the man beside him.

A WAYSIDE EPISODE 171

"Yes," he said, with a certain sharp bitterness: the
tone did not encourage any farther questioning

A singular thing happened to Mrs. Wootton that
evening. The visitors had all been business-men,
dressed in the usual morning garb of gentlemen, and
strictly conventional in their behavior; yet, when she
thought of them, a steep mountain-pass, a grotesque
skin-clad figure, and a sad face under a coyote cap
would rise before her, and she felt the old rebellious
tug of pity and kinship at her heart.

"He could not have been among them," she thought
uneasily, for she had deep down a secret sense that
this vagabond had read her with keener eyes than hus
band or child would ever do.

She wondered if the poor creature had found what
he sought in the world. Then she hastily told her
self that no doubt he had died of cold and hunger in
some of those gorges long ago. In any case, what did
it matter to her?

Yet she had for some time afterward a vague hope
and dread of meeting him in some unexpected place,
for she was sure that he was not in any ordinary
groove of life. She scanned the faces of the gangs
of miners when she passed them on the streets, and
took to studying the features of the noted, murderers,
Arctic heroes, and brilliant authors which were repro
duced in the illustrated journals. But, not finding
him, he soon died wholly out of her memory; for
Mrs. Wootton was too much absorbed in her children
to give much thought to anything else.

MADEMOISELLE JOAN

SEVEEAL years ago, ( so ran the school-master's
story,) my doctor ordered me to break up all old
associations, find my way into some quiet place, and
there rest for a year or two. Accordingly, I left
the United States, and hurry, and money-making be
hind me, crossed the St. Lawrence, and, after long
and lazy loiterings through Canada, settled down in
the obscure little hamlet of St. Kobideaux upon the
shore of the Sa-guenay. My chief business was to
think of nothing, and to sleep. I lived there, if you
choose to call it living, for a year. St. Kobideaux
was quiet and hushed as any moor-hen's nest in the
reeds. Nothing more active than dreams was ever
there hatched into life.

The village, a cluster of gray cottages with steep
red and yellow roofs, lay in a hollow of the hills, up
the sides of which wheat-fields and orchards stretched,
trying to warm themselves in the chilled sunlight.
The river, cool and dark, flowed lazily alongside of
the grassy road, which we called Rue Honore. There
is a mystery, as all the world knows, in this river.
It flows between solid walls of rock from its spring to
172

MADEMOISELLE JO Ay 173

its month. There are but few breaks -in these walls.
One was at St. Robideaux, and there the s sunshine
and smiling fields crept down to the edge of the
gloomy water. Sometimes a lumberman floated down,
on his raft from the great pine forests above. You
could hear him shouting to the boys, or singing,
"Ay! ay! Douce soeur Dore!" until he was out of
sight. The little auberge, with Repos des Voyageurs
thrust out upon a creaking sign from the sycamore
in front, stood close to the river. Vain hospitality!
No voyageur except myself came to St. Eobideaux in
that year. Madame Baltarre, when she had finished
her work and mixed her pot-au-feu, sat, with her knit
ting, on the gallery of the house, like the other women,
and watched the sun from day to day as it ripened
the peas in her garden below, or tinged and purpled
the pale green grapes on the wall. She had abun
dance of leisure. She would look for hours at the
low, bellying clouds swooping down all day long over
the ramparts of the hills, to disappear in the gorge
below.

The old cure and M. Demy came up every afternoon
to bear me company on my end of the gallery. "We
were all, I think, of good accord : hence we talked but
little.

I had brought several different kinds of tobacco
with me. It was a solemn event when we opened a
new package. We puffed our pipes in silence awhile,
and, if the flavor was good, we nodded to each other
and loved the world better than before.

"There were three live people in St. Robideaux
before you came, monsieur," Pere Drouot would say,

174 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

— - " our friend Olave Demy, here, St. Labadie and
myself. Now there are four. When we talk with
you on literature and affairs, I feel that my hand is
oil the wheel of the great machine yonder."

The "literature" which we discussed was an occa
sional two months old copy of the London " Times "
which the cure produced to enliven my exile.

" I have a friend in Quebec who occasionally sends
me this great sheet," he would say. "You will have
heard, perhaps, that it is called the < Thunderer ' in
England? Ah, $a, $a! What a world we live in!
The sweep of it quite takes away my breath ! " and he
would gaze with awe at the yellow page, fold it care
fully, put it into his pocket, and light his pipe again.

The " affairs " which occupied us were the ripening
of the cure's corn or the condition of the hay in St.
Robideaux parish. In the morning we usually sat
under the great cedar in the cure's garden, to discuss
the effect of that day's weather on these crops; and
in the afternoon, when the sun came around to the
gallery of the inn, we migrated to it and talked it all
over again. No one was offended if the others occa
sionally dropped into a doze.

Sometimes, but not often, we spoke of the river,
but then we lowered our voices. It seemed, for some
strange reason, a live, malignant thing which it might
be as well not to offend.

"It does not seem to me," M. Demy said once, "to
belong to God's world."

The cure laughed. "Ah! that is the story you
heard when you were a child! " he said. Then with
sudden gravity he remarked, " It is quite true, mon-

MADEMOISELLE JOAN 175

sieur, that it is like no other water on earth. It is
fathomless in certain parts; absolutely bottomless.
Hence there has arisen a suspicion that it may lead
in these crevices to the under world. That we are
nearer the — the land of the unblessed here than any
where else in the world."

The brief hot summer crept in these friendly confi
dences slowly away, and the briefer high-colored
autumn began to be whitened with frost. M. Labadie
now came sometimes to smoke a pipe with us. His
summer's work was over; his harvest having gone
down the river in two great cases on the last raft.
All the village assembled to see it go, and most of
the lookers-on fervently threw the sign of the cross
after it for good luck. Everybody was a friend to
M. Labadie.

"There is no such honey in all America," said
Madame Baltarre. " It is the pure juice of the flow
ers."

The little farm of the bee-grower lay a mile or
two north of the village: its only crops were white
clover and violets. The old gray house with its steep
red roof rose out of the gardens. The sun always
shone there, and the air was heavy with perfume;
there was no sound but the buzzing of the black, gold-
banded Italian bees, darting here and there through
the sweet clover. Nature in St. Eobideaux slept,
with long, full, quiet breaths; but in the old bee-farm
she woke with a cheerful smile.

M. Labadie, according to Pere Drouot, was the only
one of the inhabitants "of education." He was even
more silent than the other slow-speaking villagers;

176 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

but in the matter of bees, at least, I found him learned,
full of facts and humorous, keen observations. His
bees were entirely human to him, always spoken of
as "Messieurs"; a shrewd, intelligent race, with
whom he had been allied by business relations and
friendship for forty years.

On Sundays I used to watch for the tall, stooping
figure of the bee-grower, clothed in a brown frogged
surtout made twenty years ago, as he came down the
road to church, leading his girls, Rose and Jose
phine, by the hand. After mass Avas over the three
would stop to shake hands and chatter with their
neighbors, and then they would betake themselves to
a sunny corner of the churchyard, where a grave,
apart from all others, was covered with white clover
and violets. The bees hummed over it all day long.
They would kneel there to say a prayer; and then seat
themselves on a low stone bench, near by, to eat their
little gdteaux for the noon meal.

I joined them one warm afternoon, and observed
that when anything of interest was said they glanced
eagerly to the grave, as if some unseen listener hid
there. Little Josephine, with whom I had an old
friendship, whispered to me, nodding downward, —

"C'est ma chere mere She expects us on the Sun
day afternoon."

Then M. Labadie, his gnarled face a shade paler,
explained to me in laborious English that it would
have been their comfort to keep her at home : in the
garden, par exemple, which was her joy, or in the
orchard, where were her seat and work-table under
the great plum-tree for thirty years. But that was

MADEMOISELLE JOAN 177

not ground consecrated. "So it is that she lies here,
monsieur," waving both hands downward. "But it is
her own violets and clover that grow here ; and men
amis," looking at the bees and lowering his voice,
"they do not forget; they are always with her."

A few weeks after this, one cold November day, M.
Labadie consented to remain with my other friends,
to share my supper of a fricassee of bacon, potatoes,
and chives, and brown bread. Madame Baltarre's
coffee was hot and delicious, and we sat about the
table, which she had drawn up to the great open fire
after supper, sipping it thoughtfully, while she re
moved the dishes and set the apartment to rights.
There was another fireplace in the long, low room, and
when she had finished she pinned a fresh white apron
over her snuff -colored gown, and sat down beside it,
at her sewing. The red glow of the firelight twinkled
on the white floor, the old mahogany ar moire, the
picture of the Child Jesus with a bleeding heart, and
the shelves full of red cups and plates. A heavy snow
had fallen that day, and the lonely white stretches
outside of the window and the flat graying sky made
the warmth and snugness within more cheerful. We
all felt it. The cure flung another log on the fire,
opening up red deeps of heat; we pulled our chairs
closer. Olave Demy was persuaded to tell about the
October bear-hunt again; the cure sang a plaintive
ballad in Canadian patois, with a voice like a fine
cracked flute ; and I adroitly turned the talk so as to
bring in some of my own best stories. They had
immense success. The French habitant has a hungry
curiosity about everything belonging to "the States."

178 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

It is to him what Europe is to the untravelled Ameri
can.

"M. Labadie," said the cure, "is the only person
in St. Robideaux who has been to the States. Before
you came, monsieur, he used every day to give us of
his experience in that great country."

M. Labadie adjusted his waistcoat and looked into
his cup with a vain attempt at unconsciousness.

" You travelled in the West, monsieur, — in the
South?"

"I did not penetrate so far as I had. purposed," he
said gravely, for the subject was too weighty to be
approached carelessly. After sipping his coffee criti
cally awhile, he continued: " It was not I, monsieur.
Madame Labadie, my little Jeannette, she had ambi
tions for me. She said when we were first married,
' You must visit the States. You must see the world,
Georges/ But the children came fast, — one, four,
six, eleven. I had then but few colonies of Messieurs
my friends, to keep soup in the pot. Sometimes
there was no soup. But Jeannette still cries, 'You
must go to see the world. There are bee-farms in
Massachusetts, in Cincinnati, in California. You
must visit them all.'

" Bien, the children, they grow, they leave us, they
sicken and come home, some of them, to die. We
have only Rose and Josephine left. But in all these
years Jeannette lays by money secretly, sou by sou.
Then she gives it to me. f Go, mon ami, ' she says,
— 'go to California, to Florida. See all the bee-
farms in that great country.' I could not balk her,
monsieur. She had worked for it for thirty years. I
went."

MADEMOISELLE JOAN 179

"To California?"

"Xo; I did not even reach. Le Xiagarra, which I
had hoped much to see." He set down his cup ner
vously. "Travelling in the States is more expensive
than we supposed. I was careful, most careful. But
when I reached Utica, on the second day, I found my
money would just take me back home again. But I
had already seen much in the States to please and
benefit my family."

" And your neighbors ! " exclaimed the cure zeal
ously.

" That you did, monsieur. How many winter nights
have we sat here, hearing of that journey!" added
Olave.

M. Labadie stood up to go, still smiling and pleased
with these compliments. The night had fallen while
we talked. As he drew on his old shawl and tied it
about him, an odd thing happened. Since nightfall
the wind had risen, fitful and gusty. It blew now
suddenly through the gorge with a shrill cry.

M. Labadie, at the sound, stopped, listening. His
pleased face became strained and ghastly. The cure
and M. Demy, too, hearing this most commonplace
natural noise, had started forward to the old bee-
grower, as if to protect him. They stood breathless
a moment, watching the window, which was now but
a square patch of gray darkness, as though they
expected to see a face there.

While I looked on, astonished, the wind boister
ously rattled the window-panes and the creaking sign
outside. The cure and M. Demy gave uneasy, foolish
laughs, and sat down, apparently relieved. But M.

180 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

Labadie was greatly shaken. His lower jaw trembled
like that of a paralytic.

" It is only the wind, ha? It had — it had the effect
of a call. I thought I heard my name."

"Ah, bah, monsieur! Yon heard no call. It was
that villainous norther. I will walk home with yon,
if yon will allow me. Only to stretch my legs," said
Clave Demy. After they had said adieu, he tucked
the old man's arm under his own, and led him away.

"What does it all mean?" I asked, after the cure
and I had puffed away at our pipes awhile in silence.

He answered reluctantly: "It is an old story, a
singular occurrence."

Madame Baltarre came up close beside us. Her
fat, placid face was pinched and blue, as with cold.

"You had better leave your stories and singular
occurrences until daylight," she muttered angrily;
"nobody knows who hears you now." She threw out
her fore-fingers, crossing them.

Pere Drouot shot one uncomfortable glance at the
window, and then asserted his position.

"II ne faut pas faire les comes. Go to rest, my
daughter. Be tranquil. We will await M. Demy's
return."

Madame bade us good night, and, gathering up her
sewing, went quickly clattering up the stairs.

We smoked on without speaking, the cure reflec
tively watching the smoke from his pipe as it drifted
into the chimney ; and it was not until M. Demy had
returned and taken his seat that he broke the silence,
speaking, as he always did when much moved, in
Canadian French.

MADEMOISELLE JOAN 181

" It certainly was a singular occurrence, monsieur;
possibly, easy to explain by some scientific law, but /
never have been able to explain it. I should like to
lay it before you for your opinion. It happened in
this way : —

" Six years ago, in April, a voyageur arrived, like
yourself, in St. Robideaux, — a woman, a widow, of
about forty or fifty years; an unpleasantly white
woman, with puffy fair skin which looked as if water
was below it, light gray eyes, faded yellow hair. La
Veuve Badleigh lodged here with Madame Baltarre.
She was soon known to all the village. In every
house I would find this fat person, in her unclean
yellow gown, with big paste diamonds in her ears,
pouring out flatteries to women and men with the ges
tures of an excitable young girl, while her cold eyes
kept a keen watch from under their thick, half-shut
lids. All my people cried out, 'Oh how pious, how
friendly, she is, this Veuve Badleigh!' But, mon
sieur, when I see the finger-nails of a woman not clean,
and her shoe-laces untied, " - — the good father shook
his head, — " something is wrong in her soul. Bien !
The one place where I found her most often was on
the gallery of M. Labadie's house. There she sat in
the sun. She was enraptured with the sun, with the
old house, with the fields of white clover and violets;
she lapped up honey as a cat does cream ; she caressed
Rose and Josephine. I protest, monsieur, my flesh
crept when I saw her thick fingers paddling with the
little hands of the children. M. Labadie sat beside
her, telling her of Messieurs the bees, of the witty
sayings of Rose and Josephine, and of his wife, poor

182 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

Jeannette, with tears streaming from his eyes. Well,
well, monsieur, you know what occurs when a man
talks to another woman of his wife, with the tears
streaming ! In September they were married. " Fere
Drouot shrugged his shoulders, spreading out both
hands. "Ah-a! No sooner was Veuve Badleigh
established in the easy-chair on the porch, in the sun,
mistress of the house, the bees, the little girls, and
poor M. Labadie, than presto! all is changed!

" I know not what went on there. Nobody has ever
known. M. Labadie was poor, as all we others. One
does not raise and clothe and feed and nurse and bury
so many little ones by the help only of a few bees,
and meantime live on meat and white bread, like a
governor-general. My faith, no! The table and
clothes of our friend had always been scant and poor.
But he was never in debt, not a penny. Yet in six
months after his second marriage he had mortgaged
his farm to raise money for the new yellow gowns and
rich plats of madame ! Ah, monsieur, it was execra
ble! St. Robideaux was convulsed with rage and
pity. But we kept silent, such regard have we for
M. Labadie.

" Alas ! this was nothing to that which was to come.
A young man appeared in the village, a vulgar fellow,
lean, pimpled, loud-talking, dressed in the New York
fashion. His oaths and his jokes made the very air
of the street filthy. He was Paul Badleigh, son of
madame. She had not told M. Labadie of this son
until he appeared. He swaggers about the bee-farm,
he makes servants of Rose and Josephine, he swears
at their father. Was he her son? Ah, monsieur,

MADEMOISELLE JOAN 183

how can I tell? Sometimes I think he is a thief, a
vaurien. I know him to be a drunkard and a gambler,
and she, perhaps, is an accomplice. But how can I
tell?

" So the autumn goes, and the winter comes. Paul
l>adleigh had been drinking hard, and was not able to
leave the farm. The Veuve Badleigh (I never could
bring myself to call her Madame Labadie) came into
the village at times, more unclean, more watchful,
than ever. She did not take the trouble now to flatter
the poor villagers ; she had reaped her harvest.

"Rose and Josephine came in to mass, the thin,
scared little creatures. When they met their old
friends, they ran past like guilty things. The shame
of that woman and of her foul son was upon the chil
dren."

"As to M. Labadie," interrupted Olave Demy, "he
never came into the village, not even for mass. The
humiliation was too heavy upon him."

"I met him once on the road, near the church,"
said Pere Drouot ; " but he crept out of sight, as if he
were the thief and gambler. When he passed the
churchyard he turned his head, that he might not see
his poor Jeannette's grave." He sighed, sipped his
coffee, and continued : —

"It was about this time, monsieur, that my friend
Olave and myself were sitting here by the fire, just as
now, one cold evening. The wind was blowing a
hurricane. Suddenly it sounded, as to-night, with a
shriek down the gorge, and then came a sharp tap on
the window, another and another, as of a person in
great haste. Then the door was pushed open, and a

184 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

woman entered, throwing quick, keen glances before
lier. She was a dark, lean little body —

"Clean," said M. Demy emphatically, between the
pnffs of his pipe.

" Yes, noticeably clean and trig. She always looked
like an officer buckled up for action. She ordered
supper and a room, and then she stood by the tire
knocking off the snow, sharply scanning M. Demy and
myself.

"'You are a priest,' she said presently. 'You
know the people among these hills. Have you by
chance met a woman named Badleigh, in your jour
neys?'

" Madame Baltarre carried the word from me. 'She
is here,7 said she, nodding with meaning.

"'Ah! here?7 The woman looked from one to the
other. She waited as if she expected bad news, a
charge or accusation.

"'She is married,' said madame, 'to M. Labadie,
one of the oldest and foremost citizens of St. Bobi-
deaux.;

"'God pity us!' cried the stranger. 'Married!
This is too much ! '

"As she stood looking into the fire, I noted her
closely. She had the expression of an honest, right-
minded woman. But the obstinacy, the determina
tion, in her insignificant features! Monsieur, she
could have driven a hundred men before her into
battle.

"She coughed violently now and then. I am some
thing of mediciner, and I saw that her hold on life
was weak and would be short.

MADEMOISELLE JOAN 185

" Olave went home presently, and Madame Baltarre
left the room. Then she turned on me.

" 'You are a man of God/ she said. 'You ought to
help me. What has she done here? There is no
time for mincing matters. I am her sister Joan. I
am responsible for her.' She rubbed her wrists
nervously as she talked, exposing her thin, bloodless
arms. 'I have not much time left in which to control
her.'

" I answered her gently that I knew nothing definite
of the Veuve Badleigh, but that I feared the marriage
had not been a happy one for M. Labadie and his
little girls.

"'There are children? And little girls! ' she cried,
starting up. 'Come! I must go at once. You will
show me the way?'

" It was a cold night, but the road was free from
snow. She hurried on in silence, but the quick motion
brought on a racking cough. 'You are not fit for this
work, mademoiselle,' I said, kindly.

" The poor creature was touched. She began to cry,
like any sick, tired woman. 'It is all I have to do
now. But I shall be done with it all and go soon,'
she said. We did not speak again until wre reached
the gate before M. Labadie's house. A man's voice
was howling out some drunken song within. She
stopped. 'Who is that?'

"'It is her son, M. Paul Badleigh,' I said.

"She stood quite still a moment. 'I must go in
alone. It is worse than I thought, ' she said.

" I watched until the door shut behind her, and came
home, sure of but one thing, — that whatever she had

18C SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

to do must be done quickly. She was marked with
death.

" The next day Madame Baltarre sent up her port
manteau, which came with her on the boat, and we
heard nothing more from the bee-farm for a month.
Then, one evening, little Rose came for me. Made
moiselle Joan was dying. The child cried: the
woman had been kind to her, and she needed kind
ness. i She is not Catholic, but she will see you,
father,7 the little one said, holding my hand as she
trotted along by my side.

"The Veuve Badleigh sat at one side of the bed,
and her son at the other, watching every breath of
the dying woman with ill-suppressed triumph. She
pulled her life together to speak to me. 'They think
they will be free now,' she whispered, pointing to
them. 'My sister has done great harm in the world,
but I — >

" Veuve Badleigh thrust a cup to her mouth. 'Drink
this medicine/ she said. The flabby white creature
trembled with fear of exposure.

"I put her back, and lifted her sister, that she
might get her breath. 'God forgive them! ; she cried.

" This was an hour before she died. In that time I
gathered from her that for ten years she had held
these two in check; that after she was gone it was
their purpose to bring some nameless disaster on the
children, Eose and Josephine; that she had sent for
me to warn me of their danger. She lay still for some
moments; she had almost ceased to breathe. A look
of satisfaction and relief, terrible to see, came into
both the faces bent over her.

MADEMOISELLE JOAN 187

" Her eyes opened ; she saw it.

" Monsieur, she was a small, insignificant woman,
but the soul going out of her body was inexorable. It
was that of a great fighter. She held them with her
eyes ; she raised herself slowly in the bed.

"'You shall not hurt those children. You shall
both — come with me. '

"Before the words passed she was pulseless. It
was as if the soul had spoken out of a dead body."

"Is that the end?" I asked; for the cure had
stopped, and was mechanically puffing his pipe, which
had gone out.

"Xo," said M. Demy, "it is not all, monsieur.
But that which follows is so strange, so incredible,
that one fears to tell of it. All the village know it
to be true, yet it is never mentioned among us."

I waited in silence, and after a while the cure said : —

" I will tell you briefly the facts, monsieur, and you
must make from them your opinion. I interfered on
behalf of the children, but M. Labadie was obstinate.
Xo harm was coming to them, he averred. His wife
wanted their companionship. I had no proof against
her or her son; only the vague accusations of a dying
woman, which, after all, might be prejudice. Two
weeks passed when — M. Demy, you will correct me
if I mistake in the facts?"

M. Demy rose nervously, and stood in front of the
fire. "You are correct so far, father. It was just
two weeks, — a cold, still night."

"Xot a breath of wind blowing," said the cure.

188 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

"We were sitting about the fire here with two or
three other neighbors. Paul Badleigh lay on that
bench yonder. He had been drinking heavily, and
was asleep. Suddenly a high, keen wind swept down
the gorge, with a shrill sound like a cry. Badleigh
stopped snoring, and sat up, staring. Then, mon
sieur, there was a stroke on the window; another, and
another, sharp, — decisive. We all heard it — "

"And words," amended M. Demy.

"And words. What they were none of us could
make out, but Badleigh understood them. He got
up, and went staggering to the door.

"'I am coming,' he said.

"We never saw him alive again. The next morn
ing he was found at the foot of the Peak Jene, miles
from the village, dead."

"It appears to me," I ventured, after a pause, "that
this could be explained without any reference to a
supernatural cause. The man was terrified by the
noise made by the wind, and, stupid from drink, lost
his way."

The cure bowed his head gravely. "I have not
finished, monsieur. Pour days after Paul Badleigh's
death, M. Labadie came to the village, like a man
whose reason was shattered. His children were gone !
His wife had enticed them out for a walk, and had
boarded a boat which was descending the river. She
had taken her jewels and all the money she could find.
They had been gone some hours.

" Monsieur, every man in the village went to work
as though his own child had been stolen. The three
boats in St. Eobideaux were manned by the strongest

MADEMOISELLE JOAN 189

oarsmen. I was in the first, with Olave, here, and
M. Labadie. We overtook the fugitives at nightfall.
They had landed, and the woman and children were
in an auberge, in the village of Pont de Josef. She
was very quiet and cool, smiled and jested, saying she
had but meant to give the little demoiselles a glimpse
of the world, and would have returned to-morrow. M.
Labadie had not a word for her. He clung to his
children as if they had come back safe out of hell to
him; he would not lose his hold on them, — no, not
for a minute.

"It was impossible that we could return that night.
We must remain at the auberge, where the Veuve
Badleigh had ordered for herself the only chamber.
I went out to the gallery, and walked up and down.
I could see through the windows M. Labadie with his
little girls on his knees, Olave and the other men,
and quite apart, by herself, the fat white woman,
with her cheap jewelry shining in her ears, leering
stupidly about her. The sun had just gone down, and
the snow lay white on the ground. The moon hung
low in the red sky. It was still so clear that I could
have seen a moth in the air. But, monsieur, as I
stood for a moment, something passed me by that I
did not see. It had a rushing force like the wind,
but it was not the wind. It was nothing which I
had ever felt before. I cried out 011 God, and my
heart died in me. I looked to the lighted room
within. What had happened I knew not. But they
were standing, haggard, waiting, like men who had
heard the call of death."

"It was a sound that we heard," said M. Demy,

190 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

"like a cry, and then there were three sharp strokes
011 the window and a voice. But no one understood
the words but the Veuve Badleigh. She got up and
walked to the door, as one that is dragged, step by
step."

"I saw her," continued the cure", "as she passed
me, going across the gallery into her own chamber.
She had the face of one who had been righting a bat
tle all through her life, and was defeated at last.
Yet the miserable, leering smile was there still. She
went in and shut the door." He stopped abruptly.

"In the morning," said M. Demy, breaking the
silence, " she was found there dead. She had taken
an overdose of opium. She was buried at Pont de
Josef." He added, after a pause, "Only think, mon
sieur, what a will that little woman had! She could
thrust her hand out of the grave and drag those two
creatures after her. I am truly glad," knocking the
ashes out of his pipe reflectively, "'that I know no
one who is dead who has a will like that."

We smoked in silence a while longer. Then the
cure, glancing at the clock, which told midnight, rose
to go.

" That is the end of the history, monsieur," he said.
" M. Labadie came back to his happy, quiet life again,
gradually paid off his debts, and has almost forgotten
his sore trouble. He has but one fear. There are
times whj^n he thinks that his call to go may come
in the same manner, and that he will find the Veuve
Badleigh, her son Paul, and Mademoiselle Joan wait
ing for him beyond."

MADEMOISELLE JOAN 191

The next Sunday was one of those clear, balmy days
which come in ^November, even in Canada.

After mass I waited near the church, watching the
villagers as they leisurely climbed the rocky street and
disappeared in the vine-covered cottages. The bal
sam scent from the neighboring forests was heavy on
the sunlit air; a soft strain from the organ still camo
fitfully through the silence; around the close horizon
the tender blue of the sky melted into the blue of the
mountains. It was surely but a thin veil which hid
heaven from earth to-day.

I saw M. Labadie, with his little Rose and Jose
phine, seated on the stone bench beside the grave, as
usual; they had eaten their gotiter, and were talking
and laughing together, as if their dead had really
come back to them, and made them the happier for
coming.

They made room for me beside them.

"It seems to me, monsieur," said M. Labadie, pres
ently, " as if to-day those who are gone come closer to
us than at other times. The soft air and the clear
light give to one that thought."

"It may be so, monsieur."

"My children," he said gently, after a silence, "are
scattered in their graves over all Canada. But I think
they have found each other there beyond. We always
know that the mother is Avith us here every Sunday,
but to-day it seems as if they all were with her, — all
of us here together."

He softly patted Josephine's hand on his knee,
looking beyond her to those whom she could not see.

A rising wind rustled the trees over our heads. He
half rose, looking about uneasily,

192 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

" Kun away, mes petites. See if the good father is
still in the church." When they were out of hearing,
he leaned forward, and said to me, " There are some
others besides Jeannette and my children whom I
know yonder. Do you think I shall have to go to
them? Can they claim me?"

"It is a wide country, M. Labadie," I ventured to
say, " and they are not of your kind. They have no
claim upon you."

He nodded gravely two or three times, the light
kindling again in his eyes as he looked over the
grave into the far, soft haze. "You are right," he
said at last. " But Jeannette and the children are of
my kind. Something tells me that those others will
never find me there. It is a wide country, monsieur,
— a wide country. But we go there — to our own."

THE END OF THE VENDETTA

IT was the second day of Lucy Coyt's journey from
home. For years she had looked forward to the
time when she should set out to earn her living in
that mysterious " South " which, before the war, was
like a foreign land to most Northern women. At that
time families of the class to which Lucy belonged
frequently trained their keen-witted daughters as
teachers to go to the cotton States, precisely as they
now fit their sons to go to Colorado or Dakota. In
any case they could earn a better livelihood than
at home, and they might open up a gold mine in
the shape of a rich widower or susceptible young
planter. Two or three of Miss Coyt's classmates
had disappeared victoriously in this way. She
fancied them as reigning over a legion of slaves, and
adored by a swarthy, fiery Don Furioso; and natur
ally the possibility of such a fate for herself glimmered
hazily in the distance. Though, of course, it was
wrong to hold slaves ; at least, she was feebly confi
dent that was her belief ever since David Pettit had
talked to her about it the other evening. The Rever
end David had brought some queer new notions back
with him from the theological school.

193

194 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

" He'll wait a long time for a call in our Presbytery
if they suspect he's an abolitionist," thought Lucy as
the train whizzed swiftly on. "I wish I'd given him
a hint; though he wouldn't have taken it. Dave was
a nice sort of a girl-boy when he used to help me
skim the cream. But he has grown real coarse and
conceited, with his Avhite cravat and radical talk."
She drew a book from her bag which he had slipped
into her hand just as the stage was starting. " Imita
tion of Christ ! " eying the cross on the back suspi
ciously. " It reads like sound doctrine enough. But
Dave will have to be on his guard. If he brings any
papistical notions into our Presbytery, his chance
for a call is over."

She leaned back, uneasily feeling that if she could
have stayed and watched him, poor Miss Daisy (as the
Fairview boys used to call him) would have had a
better chance, when the train suddenly stopped. Miss
Coyt had been expecting adventures ever since they
started. Now they had begun. The train (she was
on a railway in Lower Virginia) was rushing across a
trestle bridge, when, with a shrill screech of steam,
it stopped. Half of the men in the car crowded to
the door, where a brakeman stood barring the way.

"Run over a cow?"

"No. Hush-h! Don't skeer the ladies! "

Miss Coyt laughed to herself. Jake Carr, the
brakeman on the Fairview road, would have thrust
his head in and yelled, "Keep your seats, gents!"
These Southerners were ridiculously gentle and soft
whenever they came near a woman. This brakeman
was mild-mannered enough to have kept sheep in

THE END OF THE VENDETTA 105

Arcadia. It was plain that Fairview was many hun
dred miles away; this was a different world. Lucy's
quick eyes had noted all the differences, although she
was miserably abashed by the crowd — so abashed,
indeed, that she had been parched with thirst since
morning, and could not summon courage to go to the
water-cooler for a drink.

Looking out of the window, she saw on the bank
below the bridge a hunched heap of gray flannel and
yellow calico. The men from the train ran toward it.
"Something's wrong. I'd better take right hold at
once," thought Miss Coyt. She took her purse out of
her bag and put it in her pocket, lest there might be
a thief in the car, and then hurried out after the men.
She had a very low opinion of the intelligence of men
in any emergency. At home, she always had pulled
the whole household of father and brothers along.
She was the little steam-tug; they the heavy scows,
dragged unwillingly forward.

She reached the quivering heap on the bank. It
was a woman. Miss Coyt straightened her clothes,
kneeled down and lifted her head. The gray hair
was clotted with blood. "AVhy, she's old! Her
hair's white!" cried Lucy, excitedly, catching the
head up to her breast. " Oh dear ! oh dear ! "

" It's old Mis' Crocker! " said a train man. " Yon's
her cabin down on the branch. I see her on the
bridge, 'n' she heerd the train comin', '11' she jumped,

"Don't stand there chattering. Go for a doctor! "
said Miss Coyt.

" I am a doctor," said one of the passengers, quietly,

196 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

stooping to examine the woman. " She is not dead.
Not much hurt. An arm broken."

The men carried Mrs. Crocker to her cabin. She
had caught Lucy's hand, and so led her along. The
other women craned their necks out of the car watch
ing her. They were just as sorry as Lucy, but they,
being Southern, were in the habit of leaving great
emergencies in the hands of men.

"What can that bold gyurl do?" they said. "The
gentlemen will attend to it."

The men, having seen Mrs. Crocker open her eyes,
straggled back to the train.

"Time's up, doctor! " shouted the conductor. "Ex
press is due in two minutes."

The doctor was leisurely cutting away Mrs. Crocker's
flannel sleeve. "I shall want bandages," he said,
without looking up. Lucy looked about the bare little
cabin, half drew out her handkerchief, and put it
back. It was one of her dozen newest and best.
Then she espied a pillow cover, and tore it into strips.
The doctor dressed the arm as composedly as if the
day was before him. Miss Coyt kept her eye on the
puffing engine. All the clothes she had in the world
were in her trunk on that train. What intolerable
dawdlers these Virginians were ! There ! They were
going ! She could not leave the woman — But her
clothes !

There was a chorus of shouts from the train, a puff
of steam, and then the long line of cars shot through
the hills, leaving but a wisp of smoke clinging to the
closing forest. The doctor fastened his last bandage.
Miss Coyt, with a choking noise in her throat, rushed

THE END OF THE VENDETTA 197

to the door. The doctor looked at his companion for
the first time. Then he quickly took off his hat, and
came up to her with that subtle air of homage which
sets the man in that region so thoroughly apart from
the woman.

"I beg of you not to be alarmed/' he said.

"But they are gone!"

"You have your ticket? There will be another
train before night, and you will find your trunks
awaiting you at Abingdon."

" Oh, thank you ! " gasped Lucy, suddenly ashamed
of her tear-dabbled face. " It was very silly in me.
But I never travelled alone before."

The doctor had always supposed Northern women
to be as little afflicted with timidity as life-assurance
agents. His calm eyes rested an instant on Miss Coyt
as he folded his pocket-book. " It was my fault that
you were detained, madam," he said. "If you will
permit me, I will look after your luggage when we
reach Abingdon."

Lucy thanked him again, and turned to help Mrs.
Crocker, who was struggling to her feet. How lucky
she was to meet this good-natured, fatherly doctor in
this adventure! It might have been some conceited
young man. The doctor, too, was of a very different
human species from the ox-like Fairview farmers
whom she had left behind, or neat, thin-blooded Davy
Pettit. Miss Coyt had known no other men than
these. But in the intervals of pie-making and milk
ing on the farm she had gone to the Fairview Female
Seminary, and had read Carlyle, and the Autocrat in
the "Atlantic," and "Beauties of German Authors";

198 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

and so felt herself an expert in human nature, and
quite fitted to criticise any new types which the
South might offer to her.

Mrs. Crocker went out to the doctor, who was sit
ting on the log which served as a step. She looked
at the bridge.

"Mighty big fall thet wur," she said, compla
cently. " Ther's not another woman in Wythe County
as could hev done it athout breakin' her neck."

"Ah, you've twenty good years of life in you yet,
mother," he said, good-humoredly, glancing at her
muscular limbs, and skin tanned to a tine leather-color
by wind and sun.

" Oh, I'm tough enough. Brought up eleven chil
dren right hyar on the branch. All gone — dead or
married. I helped build this hyar house witli my own
hands twelve year ago. What d'ye think o' thet corn?
Ploughed and hoed every hill of it."

" It's outrageous ! " said Lucy, authoritatively. " At
your age a woman's children should support her. I
would advise you to give up the house at once, divide
the year among them, and rest."

"No, missy; I never war one for jauntin' round.
Once, when I wur a gyurl, I wur at Marion. But I
wur born right hyar on the branch seventy year back,
'n' I reckon I'll make an end on't hyar."

" Seventy years ! — here ! " thought Lucy. Her eyes
wandered over the gorge lined with corn, the pig-pen,
the unchinked, dirty cabin. The doctor watched her
expressive face with an amused smile. Mrs. Crocker
went in to stir the fire.

"Better, you think, not to live at all?" he replied
to her looks.

THE END OF THE VEX I) ETTA 199

" I do not call it living," she said, promptly. " I've
seen it often on farms. Dropping corn and eating it;
feeding pigs and children until both were big enough
to be sent away ; and that for seventy years ! It is no
better life than that fat worm's there beside you."

The doctor laughed, and lazily put down his hand
that the worm might crawl over it. " Poor old woman !
Poor worm ! " he said. " There is nothing as merci
less as a woman — like you," hesitating, but not look
ing up. " She would leave nothing alive that was not
young and beautiful and supreme as herself. You
should consider. The world was not made for the
royal family alone. You must leave room in it for
old women, and worms, and country doctors."

Lucy laughed, but did not reply. She did not
understand this old gentleman, who was bestowing
upon her very much the same quizzical, good-humored
interest which he gave to the worm.

"I don't know how you can touch the loathsome
thing, anyhow," she said, tartly. "It creeps up into
your hand as if it knew you were taking its part."

" It does know. If I wanted it for bait, it would
not come near me. I fancy all creatures know their
friends. Watch a moment."

He walked a few steps into the edge of the woods,
and threw himself down into the deep grass, his face
upward. Whether he made signs or whistled Lucy
could not tell, but presently a bird from a neighboring
bough came circling down and perched beside him;
another and another followed, until, when he rose, it
seemed to her that the whole flock hovered about him,
chirping excitedly. He stopped by the bee-hives as

200 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

he came back, and the bees, disturbed, swarmed about
him, settling black on his head and shoulders. Lucy
ran to him, as he stood unhurt, gently brushing them
off, pleased and flushed with his little triumph.

" One would really think you knew what they said."

"I wish I did!" he said, looking thoughtfully at
the birds flying upward. There was a certain senti-
mentalism, a straining after scenic pose and effect,
which would have seemed ridiculous to her in Dave
Pettit; but she found it peculiarly attractive now.

"You have no charm?"

" No. Only that I have been friends with them all
since I was a child, and they know it. I remember
when I was a baby sitting with the black pickaninnies
on the ground playing with frogs. Even then " (with
the same touch of grandiloquence in his tone) "I did
not find anything that was alive loathsome or un
friendly. I beg your pardon," suddenly. "I did not
mean to bore you with the history of my infancy."

"Bore me! Why, I never met with so singular a
trait in anybody before ! "

Miss Coyt was now satisfied that this was not only
a most extraordinary man in intellect, but in good
ness. She could imagine what life and strength, liv
ing so close to nature as he did, he would carry to a
sick or dying bed! It was like the healing power of
the old saints.

There wras the advantage of travel! How long
would she have lived in Fairview without meeting
anybody with traits so abnormal and fine! She
began to have a sense of ownership in this her dis
covery. Now that she examined the doctor, he was

THE END OF THE VENDETTA 201

not even middle-aged: how could she have thought
him old? What womanish tenderness was in the cut
of his mouth! Indeed, this astute young woman
found the close-shaven jaws indicated a benevolence
amounting to weakness. The eyes were less satisfac
tory : they were gray and bright, but they said abso
lutely nothing to her, no more than if they belonged
to a species of animal which was unknown to her.
This only whetted her interest. Was he married?
Was he a church member? What would he probably
think of that favorite passage of hers in Jean Paul?
This young woman, we should have stated earlier, was
neither engaged nor in love. She intended to be in
love some day, however; and there were certain tests
which she applied as she went through life to each
man whom she met, just as she might idly try to set
different words to some melody known only to herself.

The man (who was not in want of a mate) had quite
forgotten the woman. He had gone into the kitchen,
and finding some bacon and fresh mountain trout, had
set about cooking dinner as if he were in camp. A
mess was already simmering on the fire. He fastened
a towel before him for an apron, lifted the lid from
the frying-pan and dropped something into it from a
case of vials which he took out of his pocket.

"Always carry my own sauces," he said as Lucy
came up. " Smell that! " sniffing up the savory steam
with an unctuous smile. " Ah-h! "

Lucy ate the dinner when it was ready in a kind of
fervor. She had never met a gourmand before. Here
was a fine individual trait in this exceptional char
acter.

202 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

This fair-haired, stout doctor, with his birds and his
cookery and his jokes and his pale impenetrable eyes,
seemed to her for some reason a bigger and more
human man than any she had ever guessed were in the
world. If she were only a man and could make a
comrade of him! She had never made a comrade of
her father or brothers; they 'were always taken up
with pigs, or politics, or county railroad business.
And the ideal companion she had picked out for her
self from religious novels was unsatisfactory — as a
matter of fact. She looked speculatively at the broad-
backed linen duster in. the doorway. She was as
unconscious of the speculation in her eyes as the polyp
fastened to a rock is of the movement of its tentacles
groping through the water for food.

The doctor had no curiosity about her. When Mrs.
Crocker questioned her as to her name and age, he
whistled to the farm dog, not listening to the answer.

"What you doin' hyar in Vuhginny, ennyhow?"

"I came from Pennsylvania to teach a school in a
place called Otoga, in Carolina, " said Lucy.

"Hev some friends in these parts, I reckon?"

"No, none at all. Unless I may call you one, Mrs.
Crocker," with a nervous laugh.

" Reckon you'll not see much more o' me, ma'am.
Otoga, hey? My son Orlando lives thar. 'Pears to
me I'd keep clar o' thet town ef I wur a young woman
'thout pertection. Orlan's tole me a heap about it."

"Why, what is the matter with Otoga?" exclaimed
Lucy, rising uncertainly. "I must go there. My
engagement — "

"Matter? Nothin', only it's ther the Van Cleves
hev gone to live. You've heerd o' them, o' course?"

THE END OF THE VENDETTA 203

"Xo. VanCleves?"

The doctor came up to the open door, watch in hand.

"The train will be due in twenty minutes."

"I am ready. Who are these people, Mrs. Crocker?
I must live among them."

"They won't hurt you, I reckon. Ther's no higher
toned people than the Van Cleves and the Suydams.
Only it's sort of unpleasant whar they are, sometimes.
You see," leisurely lighting her pipe with a brand,
" them two famblies swore death agin each other nigh
a hundred year ago, an' since then ther's not a man of
them lies died in his bed. They lived in Tennessee.
Orlan he tole me the rights of it. Four brothers of the
Van Cleves barricaded some of the Suydams up in ther
house for five weeks, an' when they were fairly starved
an' crep out, they shot them dead. Thet wur the
grandfathers o' this present stock. But they hev kep
at it stiddy. ISTot a man o' them but died in his boots.
Ther's but one Suydain left, '11' thet's Cunnel Abram.
His father wur shot by the Van Cleves. So when
Abram wur a boy, he says, says he, 'Now I'm gwine
to put a final eend to this whole thing. ' So he went at
it practisin.' with his pistol, 'n' when he thought he
were ready he challenges Jedge Van Cleve, 'n' shoots
him plumb through the head. Oh, Orlan says it wur
a fah dooel, no murder. Ther wur two Van Cleves
left, jess boys, nepheys of the jedge, 'n' they'd gone
to Californy. But Cunnel Abram he followed them,
'n' shot one on the deck of a ship bound for Chiny.
T'other he dodged him somehow 'n' come back, 'n'
is livin' in Otoga. But he'll be found. Cunnel
Abram'll track him down," wagging her head with
the zest of horror.

204 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

"But is there no law at all here?" cried Lucy.
" I can't believe such a wretch would go unhung any
where."

The doctor tapped on the window. " The train is
in sight. You must bid our friend good-by."

Lucy shook hands hurriedly with the old woman.
She had some money in her hand to give her, but,
after a moment's hesitation, dropped it back into her
pocket, and handed her a tract instead. "Religion
will do her more real good," she thought afterward,
quieting an uneasy inward twinge ; " at least it ought
to."

When they had boarded the train the doctor arranged
her seat with gentle, leisurely movements, and brought
her last week's Richmond paper. He did not, as she
expected, take the vacant seat beside her, but disap
peared, only returning when the train reached Abing-
don.

"This carriage will take you to the inn, madam.
I have written a note to the landlord, who will show
you every attention. No, no thanks," shutting her
in, his fat, agreeable face showing an instant smiling
over the door. He did not offer his hand, as all the
men whom Lucy had known would have done. He
lifted his hat, hesitating a moment before he added,
half reluctantly : " It is probable that I may meet you
again. My business calls me to Carolina."

Miss Coyt bowed civilly, but as the carriage rattled
up the street she laughed aloud and blushed. She
herself did not know why. It was certainly very
lonely and dangerous for a woman adventuring among
murderers and assassins.

THE END OF THE VENDETTA 205

Three days after she left Ahingdon, Lucy, rumbling
along the mountain-side in an old wagon, came in sight
of a dozen gray, weather-beaten houses huddled on the
edge of a creek in the gorge below.

"Yoii's Otoga," said the driver, pointing with his
whip.

" Hi, Dumfort ! " shouted a man's voice. " Hold on
thar ! " and a big young fellow in butternut flannel
appeared in the underbush. " You cahn't go to Otoga.
Yellow Jack's thar afore you. Six men dead since
yes 'day mawniii'."

" The devil! " Dumfort pulled up his mules.

" So I say. Six. I an' my wife hev been on the
lookout for you since mawnin'."

" 'Bleeged, captain. Six? That about halves them
down thar. T! T! I dunno's ever I was more inter-
ruptid than this afore ! " snapping his whip medita
tively.

Lucy, peeping through the oil-skin blind, could see
the bold, merry face of the young countryman. He
stood pulling his red beard and frowning with decent
regret for his neighbors. Of course he was sorry, but
he had so much life and fun in him that he could not
help being happy and comfortable if the whole State
of Carolina were dead with yellow fever.

"I've got the mail, too. An' a passenger," said
Dumfort, jerking his head back to the wagon. " What
in the mischief am I to do?"

"The mail'll keep. Drive right up to my house,
an' my wife '11 give you an' the other man shake
downs till the mawnin'."

206 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

" 'Tain't another man."

The young man stepped quickly forward, with an
instantaneous change of manner. He jerked off his
quilted wide-rimmed hat ("made out of his wife's old
dress," thought Lucy.) — "I did not know that ther'
was a lady inside," he said. "I was too rough with
my news. Come up to my house. My wife'll tell
you there's no danger."

"I shall be very glad to go," said Miss Coyt.

Dumfort drove up a rutted mountain road and
stopped before a log cabin. Of all houses in the
world, it was plainly the first venture in life of two
poor young people. Lucy read the whole story at a
glance. There was the little clearing on the mountain
side; the patch of corn and potatoes (just enough for
two) ; the first cow ; the house itself, walls, ceiling, and
floor made of planed planks of the delicately veined
poplar; the tidy supper table, with its two plates;
the photographs of the bride's father and mother hung
over the mantel-shelf in frames which she had made
of bits of mica from the mine yonder. Here was a
chair made out of a barrel and trimmed with pink
muslin, there a decorated ginger jar, a chromo of the
Death of Andrew Jackson on the wall. Lucy was on
the same rung of the ladder of culture as her hostess.

" She has a very refined taste, " she thought. " That
tidy stitch was just coming in at Fairview." Hurry
ing in from the field, her baby in her arms, came a
plump, freckled, blue-eyed woman.

"Mistress Thomas," said Dumfort, ponderously,
" let me make you acquainted with Miss Coyt. She
war a-goin' to Otoga to teach school."

THE END OF THE VENDETTA 207

The two women exchanged smiles and keen glances.
"Baby's asleep," whispered the mother. "I'll shako
hands when I lay him down."

Lucy ran to turn down the crib quilt. " He's tre
mendously big," she whispered, helping to tuck him
in.

"Now, Dorcas, let's have supper," called the farmer
from the door, where he sat smoking with Dumfort.
"Our friends must be hungry as b'ars."

Dorcas smiled, and with intolerably lazy slowness
tucked up her sleeves from her white arms and began
the inevitable chicken frying. Lucy suddenly remem
bered how unbusinesslike was the whole proceeding.
She went up to her hostess, who was stooping over
the big log fire.

"What do you charge for board?" she said. "I
should like to stay here until the sickness is over in
Otoga. That is, if your charges are reasonable," eying
her keenly. Her rule always was to make her bargain
before buying, then she never was cheated.

Mrs. Dorcas's fair face burned red. "We don't
take folks in to board," she drawled in her sweet
voice, looking at Lucy curiously. "But we'll be
mighty glad if you'll stay's long's you can. It's pow
erful lonesome hyah on the mountains. We'll take it
as very kyind in you to stay."

"It is you who are kind," said Lucy, feeling miser
ably small and vulgar. But how could she have
known? They did not use strangers in this ridicu
lously generous way in Fairview.

Mistress Dorcas shot an amused, speculative glance
after her, and went on with her frying. Miss Coyt,

208 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

presently finding the baby awake, took him up and
went out to the steps where his father and Dumfort
still smoked and gossipped in the slanted yellow beams
of 'the lowering sun. The baby, who was freckled and
soft-eyed as his mother, replied to Lucy's cooing and
coddling by laughing and thrusting his tiny fat fist
into her eyes. Lucy stooped and kissed him furtively.
She felt lonely and far from home just then.

"What do you call baby?" she asked.

Mrs. Dorcas came to the door. " His real name is
Humpty. But he was baptized Alexander — Alex
ander Van Cleve."

Lucy sprang to her feet. " Van Cleve ! " staring at
the farmer. "I thought your name was Thomas?"

"Thomas Van Cleve," smiling. "Why, what's
wrong with that?"

Lucy felt as though a blow had been struck at her,
which made her knees totter. " They told me in Vir
ginia that the Suydams were on your track."

There was a sudden silence, but Miss Coyt, being
greatly shaken, stumbled on. "I did not expect to
come in your way — I'm not used to such things —
and this poor baby," hugging it passionately. "It's
a Van Cleve too!"

The young man took the boy. "Quiet yourself.
Humpty will not be hurt by — any one," he said, and
putting him up on his shoulder he walked down to the
chicken-yard. His wife went in without a word, and
shut the door. Lucy sat down. After a long time
she said to Dumfort :

"I have made a mistake."

"Yes. But you couldn't be expected to know. I

THE END OF THE VENDETTA 209

never heerd a Suydam's name mentioned to a Van
Cleve afore. It was so surprisin' it didn't seem de
cent, somehow."

"I don't understand why," groaned Lucy.

"No? Ther's things what ain't never talked of.
Now ther's the Peterses in the Smoky Mountings.
There used to be a disease in the Peters fambly which
attacked one leg. But it turned out to be true Asiatic
leprosy. Well, it isn't reckoned civil hyarabouts to
speak of legs afore a Peters. Now this fambly's got a
— a discussion hangin' on with the Suydams for a
hundred year, as onfortinit 's leprosy. An' — well,
probably you're the first person's ever mentioned it to
them."

They relapsed into silence until they were called in
to supper. Lucy felt as if a thin glaze of ice had
risen between her and the Van Cleves. They were
afraid of her. As for her, her food choked her.
But after supper Mrs. Dorcas brought out a flannel
slip which she was making for baby, and Lucy insisted
on trying it on. She was fond of babies. She had a
sacque in her trunk which she had been braiding for
her brother Joe's child.

"I'll bring it down to give you the idea," she
said, and ran up for it.

Van Cleve looked at it over his wife's shoulder when
it came. "Try that thing on Humpty, Miss Coyt,"
he said, and when it was on he held the boy up on his
outstretched arm. "Pretty's a picture, hey, Dum-
fort?"

"I'll finish it for him," exclaimed Lucy, with a
gush of generosity. "I can make Sam another."

210 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

Mrs. Dorcas broke into a delighted flood of thanks.
She jumped up to fit and button it on the boy, while
her husband, quite as vain and pleased as she, held
him. It seemed incredible to Lucy that this ghastly
horror, which never could be mentioned, stood like a
shadow behind the three ; that this commonplace, jolly
little family went to bed, rose, sat down to eat, with
Death as their perpetual companion, dumb, waiting to
strike.

The next morning was that of an April day. The
whole world was swathed in fog and gray dampness,
and the next moment it flashed and sparkled in the
sunlight, every leaf quivering back in brilliance.
Young Van Cleve had set off by daylight, whistling
behind his steers. Before noon he came up the moun
tain, his head sunk, silent and morose. Even the
ruddy color was gone ; his thick-featured, jolly face
was nipped as with age.

Dorcas ran to meet him. "Are you sick, Tom? "

"No."

" Have you " — she glanced swiftly around — " have
you heard — anything? "

"Nothing. I thought it best to throw off work
to-day."

He drove the steers into the inclosure. As he
unyoked them he sent keen, furtive glances into the
darkening woods. Meanwhile the sky had lowered.
Clouds walled in the mountain plateau; the day had
grown heavy and foreboding.

Dumfort came to Lucy, who was sitting on the steps
with the baby.

" Thomas has hed a warnin'," he said, in a low tone.
"Gunnel Abram's on his track."

THE END OF THE VENDETTA 211

" He has seen him ! " She started up, catching up
Humpty in her arms. "He is coining here?"

" So I think. But Thomas hain't seen him. He's
ben warned. I've heerd that them Van Cleves allays
kin tell when a Suydam is near them."

" Nonsense ! " Lucy set the child down again.

"Jess as some men," pursued Dumfort, calmly,
"kin tell when there's a rattlesnake in the grass nigh:
an7 others creep with cold ef a cat's in the room."

Miss Coyt, still contemptuous, watched Van Cleve
sharply as he passed into the house. "Dorcas," he
said, quietly, as he passed, " bring Humpty in. Keep
indoors to-day." He went up to the loft, closing the
trap-door behind him, and Lucy fancied that she heard
the click of fire-arms.

Dumfort's pipe went out in his mouth with his
smothered excitement. "He's loadin'! Suydam's
cominM " he whispered. "Thomas ain't the same
man he was this mawnin' ! He's layin' to, 'n' waitin'."

" To murder another man ! And he calls himself a
Christian ! He had family prayers this morning ! "

" What's that got to do with it?" demanded, Dum
fort, fiercely. "Thomas's got his dooty laid out.
He's got the murderer of his brother to punish. The
law's left it to them two famblies to settle with each
other. God's left it to them. Them old Jews sent
the nearest of kin to avenge blood. The Suydams hev
blood to avenge." He got up abruptly and walked
uneasily up and down the barnyard. Dorcas had left
her work, and with Humpty in her arms sat by the
window, her keen eyes fixed on the thicket of pines
that fenced in the house, black and motionless in the
breathless air.

212 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

No rain had fallen as yet, but the forest, the peaks
of the mountains beyond, the familiar objects in the
barnyard, had drawn closer with that silent hush and
peculiar dark distinctness that precedes a storm.
They, too, listened and waited. Lucy heard a step in
the house. Van Cleve came heavily down from the
loft and seated himself, his face turned toward the
road by which a stranger must approach.

Lucy stood irresolute for a few minutes ; she felt as
if she could not draw her breath; the air was full of
death. Pulling the hood of her waterproof over her
head, she crossed the stile and walked down the road.
"I will be first to meet the wolf," she said aloud,
laughing nervously.

The road wound through the unbroken forest down
to the creek. As she came nearer to the water she
heard the plash of a horse's feet crossing the ford.
She tried to cry out that he was coming, to warn
them, but her mouth would not make a sound; her
legs shook under her; she caught by a tree, possessed
by childish, abject fear. When the horse and rider
came into sight she laughed hysterically.

It was the good-humored doctor. He turned quietly
at her cry, and smiled placidly. Nothing would
startle that phlegmatic mass of flesh. He alighted,
tied his horse, and came to her with the leisurely,
noiseless movements peculiar to him.

" You are frightened. What are you afraid of, Miss
Coyt?"

" Oh, of a monster ! " — laughing feebly — "a human
beast of prey that is in these mountains. Every time
a branch moved I expected to see his murderous face
coming: toward his victim."

THE END OF THE VENDETTA 213

She wanted to pour out the whole story, but he
stood stolid and incurious, asking no questions. She
hesitated and stopped.

"I saw nobody," he said, composedly.

Whether he was interested or not, she must tell
him. He was so wise and kind; he was a man used
to control others. If he would interfere he could
doubtless put an end to it all.

"It is a vendetta," she began. "You heard of it
the time of the accident."

"You should not allow yourself to be excited by the
gossip of the mountains," he interrupted, gently; but
his eyes, smiling down at her, suddenly seemed to her
as hard and impenetrable as granite. " I fear I must
leave you. I must reach Otoga before noon."

"You must not go to Otoga," catching him by the
arm. " The yellow fever is there. Half of the popu
lation are dead."

"Worse than that, I am afraid," he said, gravely.
"We heard this morning that there was now neither
doctor, nurse, nor anybody to bury the dead."

"And you are going to help them?" drawing back
with a kind of awe.

"I am a doctor," he said, indifferently, "and I can
nurse in a fashion, and if the worst comes to the worst,
I can dig a grave."

"I'm sure it is — very heroic," gasped Lucy. The
tears came to her eyes.

He frowned irritably. "Nothing of the kind.
Somebody must go, of course. The physicians in
Abingdon are married men. I am a stranger, and
have nobody. There is nothing to keep me in this

214 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

world but a little business which I have to do, and
that lies in Otoga. I really must ride on. But I
will take you safely home first. Where are you stay-
ing?"

" At the cabin yonder. Behind the pines. Thomas
Van Cleve's."

The doctor had stepped before her to bend aside the
bushes. He stopped short, and stood motionless a
moment, his back to her. When he turned there was
an alteration in his face which she could not define.
The actor was gone ; the real man looked out for an
instant from behind the curtain.

"Young Van Cleve lives in that cabin?"

"Yes, with his wife and child."

"A child? Is it a boy?"

" Yes, the dearest little fellow. Why do you ask? "

A smile, or it might have been a nervous contortion,
flickered over the fat, amiable face. His tones became
exceedingly soft and lazy.

" It is with Van Cleve I had business to settle. I
have been looking for him a long time."

"Then you will come to the house with me?"

She would have passed on, but stopped, troubled
and frightened, she knew not why. The man had not
heard her; he stood slowly stroking his heavy chin,
deliberating. Certainly there was nothing dramatic
in the stout figure in its long linen, coat, low hat, and
boots sunk in the mud — there was not a trace of emo
tion on the flabby, apathetic features, yet Lucy cow
ered as though she had been brought face to face with
a naked soul in the crisis of its life.

"I have been looking for him a long time," he

THE END OF THE VENDETTA 215

repeated, consulting with himself. "But there is
Otoga. They need me in Otoga."

There was not a sound. Xot the fall of a leaf.
Even the incessant sough of the wind through the
gorges was still. The world seemed to keep silence.

He looked up at the cabin; it was but a step. He
had been following Van Cleve for years.

He drew his breath quickly, thrust the bushes
aside, and began to climb the rock.

The sun suddenly flashed out; a bird fluttered up
from the thicket, and perched on a bough close beside
him, sending out a clear trill of song. He stopped
short, a quick, pleased heat coming to his face.

"Pretty little thing, hey? It knows me, d'ye see?
It's watching me."

He waited a moment until the song ceased, and
then nervously adjusted his hat.

" I'll go to those poor devils in Otoga. I reckon
that's the right thing to do." And turning, he hastily
mounted his horse.

Lucy felt that he was going to his death, and he
seemed like an old friend. She ran across the road
and put her hands up on the horse's neck.

"Good-by," she said.

"Good-by, Miss Coyt."

" I will never see you again ! God bless you ! "

" Me 9 " He looked at her, bewildered. " God? Oh
yes. Well, perhaps so." He rode down the road,
and the stout figure and napping linen coat disappeared
in the fog.

216 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

Four days passed. Dumfort, who appeared to be a
man of leisure, lounged about the cabin, helping with
the work, and occasionally bringing news from Otoga,
gathered from some straggler who was flying from the
fever. He came in one morning and beckoned Van
Cleve out.

" There's one of them poor wretches fallen by the
wayside. He's got the plague. It's my belief there's
not an hour's life in him."

"I'll come." Van Cleve hastily gathered some
simple remedies; he had not heroism enough to leave
his family and sacrifice his life for his neighbors, but
he was a kindly fellow, and could not turn back from
any dying creature creeping to his door. The two
men went down the mountain together.

"I wanted," said Dumfort, "to pull him under a
rock. But he said, 'No, let me die out-of-doors.' '

" That was a queer notion."

"Yes." Dumfort glanced askance at his compan
ion. " He's ben down doctorin' them pore souls in
Otoga. Went there voluntarily. I hearn of him
two days ago." After an embarrassed pause, he
added, "He wants to see you, Thomas. You, per
sonally."

" Me ? Who is he ? " halting.

Dumfort lowered his voice to a quick whisper. " It's
the man that's ben follerin' you an' your'n, Thomas."

Van Cleve uttered an oath, but it choked on his
lips. " An' he's dying? What does he want of me? "

"God knows. I don't." The men stood silent.
"He's been doctorin' them pore souls in Otoga," ven
tured Dumfort, presently.

THE END OF THE VENDETTA 217

Still Van Cleve did not move. Then, with a jerk,
he started down-hill. " I'll go to him. Bring them
other medicines, Dumfort."

But when he reached the dying man ho saw that it
was too late for medicines. He kneeled beside him
and lifted his head, motioning Dumfort to stand back
ont of hearing.

What passed between them no one but God ever
knew.

As the sun was setting that day Van Cleve came to
the cabin. He was pale and haggard, but he tried to
speak cheerfully.

" It was a poor fellow, Dorcas, down in the woods
as died of the fever. Dumfort an' I have buried him.
But I'd like you an' Miss Coyt to come to the grave.
It'd seem kinder, somehow." He carried the baby in
his arms, and when they reached the place — it was a
patch of sunny sward, where the birds sang overhead
— he said : " Humpty, I wish you'd kneel down on the
grave an' say your little prayer. I think he'd know,
an 'd feel better of it; an' — there's another reason."

The next week Miss Coyt received a letter which,
with very red cheeks, she told Dorcas would compel
her immediate return home. Mr. Pettit, of whom
she had told her, had received a call, and had asked
her to be his wife, and this would put an end to her
experiment of teaching in the South. In a day or
two Dumfort drove her back to Abingdon, and the
little family in the cabin returned to their usual
quiet routine of life.

A FADED LEAF OF HISTORY

ONE quiet, winter's afternoon I found in a dark
corner of an old library a curious pamphlet.
It fell into my hands like a bit of old age and
darkness itself. The pages were coffee-colored and
worn thin and ragged at the edges, like rotting
leaves in fall; they had grown clammy to the touch,
too, from the grasp of so many dead years. There
was a peculiar smell of herbs about the book which it
had carried down from the days when young William
Penn went up and down the clay paths of his village
of Philadelphia, stopping to watch the settlers fish
ing in the clear ponds or to speak to the gangs of
yellow-painted Indians coming in with peltry from
the adjacent forest.

The leaves were scribbled over with the name of
John, — "John," in a cramped, childish hand. His
father's book, no doubt, and the writing a bit of boy
ish mischief. Outside now, in the street, the boys
were pelting each other writh snowballs, just as this
John had done in the clay paths. But for nearly two
hundred years his bones had been crumbled into lime
and his flesh gone back into grass and roots. Yet
218

A FADED LEAF OF HISTORY 219

here he was, a boy; here was the old pamphlet and
the scrawl in yellowing ink, with the smell of herbs
about it still.

Printed by Rainier Janssen, 1G98. I turned over
the leaves, expecting to find some "Report of the
Condition of the Principalities of New Netherland,
or Xew Sweden, for the Use of the Lords High
Proprietors thereof" (for of such precious dead
dust this library is full); but I found, instead,
wrapped in weighty sentences and backed by the
gravest and most ponderous testimony, the story of
a baby, "a Sucking Child six Months old." It was
like a live seed in the hand of a mummy. The story
of a baby and a boy and an aged man, in "the devour
ing Waves of the Sea; and also among the cruel
devouring Jaws of inhuman Canibals." There were,
it is true, other divers persons in the company, by
one of whom the book is written. But the divers
persons seemed to be only part of that endless
caravan of ghosts that has been crossing the world
since the beginning; they never can be anything but
ghosts to us. If only to find a human interest in
them, one would rather they had been devoured by
inhuman cannibals than not. But a baby and a boy
and an aged man !

All that afternoon, through the dingy windows
I could see the snow falling soft and steadily,
covering the countless roofs of the city, and, fancy
ing the multitude of comfortable happy homes which
these white roofs hid and the sweet-tempered,
gracious women there, with their children close about
their knees, I thought I would like to bring this

220 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

little live baby back to the others, with its strange,
pathetic story, out of the buried years where it has
been hidden with dead people so long, and give it a
place and home among us all again.

I have left the facts of the history unaltered, even
in the names; and I believe them to be, in every
particular, true.

On the 22d of August, 1696, this baby, a puny,
fretful boy, was carried down the street of Port Koyal,
Jamaica, and on board the "barkentine" Reforma
tion, bound for Pennsylvania; a Province which, as
you remember, Du Chastellux, a hundred years later,
described as a most savage country which he was
compelled to cross on his way to the burgh of Phila
delphia, on its border. To this savage country our
baby was bound. He had by way of body-guard, his
mother, a gentle Quaker lady; his father, Jonathan
Dickenson, a wealthy planter, on his way to increase
his wealth in Penn's new settlement; three negro
men, four negro women, and an Indian named Venus,
all slaves of the said Dickenson ; the captain, his boy,
seven seamen, and two passengers. Besides this
defence, the baby's ship was escorted by thirteen sail
of merchantmen under convoy of an armed frigate.
For these were the days when, to the righteous man,
terror walked abroad. The green, quiet coasts were
but the lurking-places of savages, and the green,
restless seas more treacherous with pirates. Kidd
had not yet buried his treasure, but was prowling
up and down the eastern seas, gathering it from
every luckless vessel that fell in his way. The
captain, Kirle, debarred from fighting by cowardice,

A FADED LEAF OF HISTORY 221

and the Quaker Dickenson, forbidden by principle,
appear to have set out upon their perilous journey,
resolved to defend themselves by suspicion, pure and
simple. They looked for treachery behind every bush
and billow; the only chance of safety lay, they main
tained, in holding every white man to be an assassin
and every red man a cannibal until they were proved
otherwise.

The boy was hired by Captain Kirle to wait upon
him. His name was John Hilliard, and he was pre
cisely what any of these good-humored, mischievous
fellows outside would have been, hired on a brigantine
two centuries ago; disposed to shirk his work in order
to stand gaping at Black Ben fishing, or to rub up
secretly his old cutlass for the behoof of Kidd, or the
French when they should come, Avhile the Indian
Venus stood by, looking on, with the baby in her
arms.

The aged man is invariably set down as chief of the
company, though the captain held all the power and
the Quaker all the money. But white hair and a
devout life gave an actual social rank in those days,
obsolete now, and Robert Barrow was known as a man
of God all along the coast-settlements from Massachu
setts to Ashly Elver, among whites and Indians.
Years before, in Yorkshire, his inward testimony (he
being a Friend) had bidden him go preach in this
wilderness. He asked of God, it is said, rather to
die ; but was not disobedient to the Heavenly Call, and
came and labored faithfully. He was now returning
from the West Indies, whither he had carried his
message a year ago.

222 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

The wind set fair for the first day or two; the sun
was warm. Even the grim Quaker Pickensoii might
have thought the white-sailed fleet a pretty sight scud
ding over the rolling green plain, if he could have
spared time to his jealous eyes from scanning the
horizon for pirates. Our baby saw little of sun
or sea; for having hardly vitality enough to live
from day to day, it was kept below, smothered in
the finest of linens and the softest of paduasoy.

One morning when the fog lifted, Dickenson 's
watch for danger was rewarded. They had lost their
way in the night; the fleet was gone, the dead blue
slopes of water rolled up to the horizon on every side
and were met by the dead blue sky, without the break
of a single sail or the flicker of a flying bird. For
fifteen days they beat about without any apparent aim
other than to escape the enemies whom they hourly
expected to leap out from behind the sky line. On
the sixteenth day, friendly signs were made to them
from shore. "A fire made a great Smoak, and People
beckoned to us to putt on Shoar," but Kirle and
Dickenson, seized with fresh fright, put about and
made off as for their lives, until nine o'clock that
night, when seeing two signal-lights, doubtless from
some of their own convoy, they cried out, " The
French! the French!" and tacked back again as fast
as might be. The next day, Kirle being disabled by
a jibing boom, Dickenson brought his own terrors
into command, and for two or three days whisked the
unfortunate barkentine up and down the coast, afraid
of both sea and shore, until finally, one night, he run
her aground on a sand-bar on the Florida reefs.

A FADED LEAF OF HISTORY 223

Wondering much at this "judgment of God," Dicken-
son went to work. Indeed, to do him justice, he
seems to have been always ready enough to use his
burly strength and small wit, trusting to them to carry
him through the world wherein his soul was beleag
uered by many merciless judgments of God and the
universal treachery of his brother-man.

The crew abandoned the ship in a heavy storm. A
fire was kindled in the bight of a sand-hill and protected
as well as might be with sails and palmetto branches ;
and to this, Dickenson, with " Great trembling and
Pain of Hartt," carried his baby in his own arms and
laid it in its mother's breast. Its little body was
pitiful to see from leanness, and a great fever was
upon it. Kobert Barrow, the crippled captain, and a
sick passenger shared the child's shelter. "Where
upon two Cannibals appeared, naked, but for a breech-
cloth of plaited straw, with Countenances bloody and
furious, and foaming at the Mouth"; but on being
given tobacco, retreated inland to alarm the tribe.
The ship's company gathered together and sat down
to wait their return, expecting cruelty, says Dicken
son, and dreadful death. Christianity was now to be
brought face to face with heatheimess, which fact our
author seems to have recognized under all his terror.
" We began by putting our trust in the Lord, hoping
for no Mercy from these bloody-minded Creatures;
having too few guns to use except to enrage them, a
Motion arose among us to deceive them by calling our
selves Spaniards, that Nation having some influence
over them " ; to which lie all consented, except Robert
Barrow. It is instructive to observe how these early

224 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

Christians met the Indians with the same weapons of
distrust and fraud which have proved so effective in
civilizing them since.

In two or three hours the savages appeared in groat
numbers, bloody and furious, and in their chronic
state of foaming at the mouth. "They rushed in
upon us, shouting ' Nickalees?7 (Inglese 9) To which
we replied 'Espania.7 But they cried the more
fiercely, 'No Espania, Nickalees ! 7 and being greatly
enraged thereat, seized upon all Trunks and Chests
and our cloathes upon our Backs, leaving us each
only a pair of old Breeches, except Robert Barrow,
my wife, and child from whom they took nothing."
The king, or Cassekey, as Dickenson calls him,
distinguished by a horsetail fastened to his belt be
hind, took possession of their money and buried it,
at which the good Quaker spares not his prayers for
punishment on all pagan robbers, quite blind to the
poetic justice of the burial, as the money had been
made on land stolen from the savages. The said
Cassekey also set up his abode in their tent; kept all
his tribe away from the woman and child and aged
man; kindled fires; caused, as a delicate attention,
the only hog remaining on the wreck to be killed and
brought to them for a midnight meal ; and, in short,
comported himself so hospitably and with such kindly
consideration toward the broad-brimmed Quaker, that
we are inclined to account him the better gentleman
of the two, in spite of his scant costume of horsetail
and belt of straw. As for the robbery of the ship's
cargo, no doubt the Cassekey had progressed far
enough in civilization to know that to the victors

A FADED LEAF OF HISTORY 225

belong the spoils. Florida, for two years, had been
stricken down from coast to coast by a deadly famine,
and in all probability these cannibals returned thanks
to whatever god they had for this windfall of food
and clothes devoutly as our forefathers were doing
at the other end of the country for the homes which
they had taken by force. There is a good deal of kin
ship among us in circumstances after all, as well as in
blood. The chief undoubtedly recognized a brother
in Diekenson, every whit as tricky as himself, and
would fain, savage as he was, have proved him to be
something better; for, after having protected them for
several days, he came into their tent and gravely and
with authority set himself to asking the old question,
"Nickalees?"

" To which, when we denied, he directed his Speech
to the Aged Man, who would not conceal the Truth,
but answered in Simplicity, 'Yes.' Then he cried in
Wrath 'Totus Nickalees ! ' and went out from us. But
returned in great fury with his men and stripped all
Cloathes from us."

However, the clothes were returned, and the chief
persuaded them to hasten on to his own village.
Diekenson, suspecting foul play as usual, insisted on
going to Santa Lucia. There, the Indian told him,
they would meet fierce savages and undoubtedly have
their throats cut, which kindly warning was quite
enough to drive the Quaker to Santa Lucia headlong.
He was sure of the worst designs on the part of the
cannibal, from a strange glance which he fixed upon
the baby as he drove them before him to his village,
saying with a treacherous laugh, that after they had

226 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICA!? LIFE

gone there for a purpose lie had, they might go to
ftaiita Lucia as they would.

It was a bleak, chilly afternoon as they toiled mile
after mile along the beach, the Quaker woman far
behind the others with her baby in her arms, carry
ing it, as she thought, to its death. Overhead, flocks
of dark-winged grakles swooped across the lowering
sky, uttering from time to time their harsh forebod
ing cry; shoreward, as far as the eye could see, the
sand stretched in interminable yellow ridges, black
ened here and there by tufts of dead palmetto trees ;
while on the other side the sea had wrapped itself in
a threatening silence and darkness. A line of white
foam, crept out of it from horizon to horizon, dumb
and treacherous, and licked the mother's feet as she
dragged herself heavily after the others.

From time to time the Indian stealthily peered over
her shoulder, looking at the child's thin face as it
slept upon her breast. As evening closed in, they
came to a broad arm of the sea thrust inland through
the beach, and halted at the edge. Beyond it, in the
darkness, they could distinguish the yet darker shapes
of the wigwams, and savages gathered about two or
three enormous fires that threw long red lines of glare
into the sea-fog. " As we stood there for many Hour's
Time," says Jonathan Dickens on, "we were assured
these Dreadful Fires were prepared for us."

Of all the sad little company that stand out against
the far-off dimness of the past, in that long watch
upon the beach, the low-voiced, sweet-tempered Quaker
lady comes nearest to us.

The sailors had chosen a life of peril years ago; her

A FADED LEAF OF II IS TO II Y 227

husband, with all his suspicious bigotry, had, when
pushed to extremes, an admirable tough coinage witli
which to face the dangers of sea and night and death;
and the white-headed old man, who stood apart and
calm, had received, as much as Elijah of old, a Divine
word to speak in the wilderness, and the life in it
would sustain him through death. But Mary Dicken-
son was only a gentle, commonplace woman, whose life
had been spent on a quiet farm, whose highest ambi
tion was to take care of her snug little house, and all of
whose brighter thoughts of romance or passion began
and ended in this staid Quaker and the baby that was
a part of them both. It was only six months ago that
this first-born child had been laid in her arms ; and as
she lay on the white bed looking out on the spring
dawning day after day, her husband sat beside her
telling her again and again of the house he had made
ready for her in Penn's new settlement. She never
tired of hearing of it. Some picture of this far-off
home must have come to the poor girl as she stood
now in the night, the sea-water creeping up to her
naked feet, looking at the fires built, as she believed,
for her child.

Toward midnight a canoe came from the opposite
side, into which the chief put Barrow, Dickenson,
the child, and its mother. Their worst fears being
thus confirmed, they crossed in silence^ holding each
other by the hand, the poor baby moaning now and
then. It had indeed been born tired into the world,
and had gone moaning its weak life out ever since.

Landing on the farther beach, the crowd of waiting
Indians fled from them as if frightened, and halted in

228 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

the darkness beyond the fires. But the Cassekey
dragged them on toward a wigwam, taking Mary and
the child before the others. "Herein," says her hus
band, "was the Wife of the Canibal, and some old
Women sitting on a Cabbin made of Sticks about a
Foot high, and covered with a Matt. He made signs
for us to sitt down on the Ground, Avhich we did. The
Cassekey 's Wife looking at my Child and having her
own Child in her lapp, putt it away to another
Woman, and rose upp and would not bee denied, but
would have my Child. She took it and suckled it at
her Breast, feeling it from Top to Toe, and viewing
it with a sad Countenance."

The starving baby, being thus warmed and fed,
stretched its little arms and legs out on the savage
breast comfortably and fell into a happy sleep, while
its mother sat apart and looked on.

"An Indian did kindly bring to her a Fish upon a
Palmetto Leaf and set it down before her; but the
Pain and Thoughts within her were so great that she
could not eat."

The rest of the crew having been brought over, the
chief set himself to work and speedily had a wigwam
built, in which mats were spread, and the shipwrecked
people, instead of being killed and eaten, went to
sleep just as the moon rose, and the Indians began " A
Consert of hideous Noises," of welcome.

Dickenson and his band remained in this Indian
village for several days, endeavoring all the time to
escape, in spite of the kind treatment of the chief,
who appears to have shared all that he had with them.
The Quaker kept a constant, fearful watch, lest there

A FADED LEAF OF HISTORY 229

might be death in the pot. When the Cassckey found
they were resolved to go, he set out for the wreck,
bringing back a boat which was given to them, with
butter, sugar, a rundlet of wine, and chocolate; to
Mary and the child he also gave everything which he
thought would be useful to them. This friend in the
wilderness appeared sorry to part with them, but
Dickenson was blind both to friendship and sorrow,
and obstinately took the direction against which the
chief warned him, suspecting treachery, "though we
found afterward that his counsell was good."

Kobert Barrow, Mary, and the child, with two sick
men, went in. a canoe along the coast, keeping the
crew in sight, who, with the boy, travelled on foot,
sometimes singing as they marched. So they began
the long and terrible journey, the later horrors of
which I dare not give in the words here set down.
The first weeks were painful and disheartening,
although they still had food. Their chief discomfort
arose from the extreme cold at night and the tortures
from the sand-flies and mosquitoes on their exposed
bodies, which they tried to remedy by covering them
selves with sand, but found sleep impossible.

At last, however, they met the fiercer savages of
whom the chief had warned them, and practised upon
them the same device of calling themselves Spaniards.
By this time, one would suppose, even Dickenson 's
dull eyes would have seen the fatal idiocy of the lie.
"Crying out 'Nickalees No Espanier,' they rushed
upon us, rending the few Cloathes from us that we
had; they took all from my Wife, even tearing her
Hair out, to get at the Lace, wherewith it was

230 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

knotted." They were then dragged furiously into
canoes and rowed to the village, being stoned and shot
at as they went. The child was stripped, while one
savage filled its mouth with sand.

But at that the chief's wife came quickly to Mary
and protected her from the sight of all, and took the
sand out of the child's mouth, entreating it very ten
derly, whereon the mass of savages fell back, mutter
ing and angry.

The same woman brought the poor naked lady to
her wigwam, quieted her, found some raw deerskins,
and showed her how to cover herself and the baby
with them.

The tribe among which they now were had borne
the famine for two years ; their emaciated and hunger-
bitten faces gave fiercer light to their gloomy, treach
erous eyes. Their sole food was fish and palmetto
berries, both of which were scant. Nothing could
have been more unwelcome than the advent of this
crowd of whites, bringing more hungry mouths to fill;
and, indeed, there is little reason to doubt that the
first intention was to put them all to death. But,
after the second day, Dickenson relates that the chief
" looked pleasantly upon my Wife and Child " ; instead
of the fish entrails and filthy water in which the fish
had been cooked which had been given to the prison
ers, he brought clams to Mary, and kneeling in the
sand showed her how to roast them. The Indian
women, too, carried off the baby, knowing that its
mother had no milk for it, and handed it about from
one to the other, putting away their own children that
they might give it their food. At which the child,

A FADED LEAF OF HISTORY 231

who, when it had been wrapped in fine flannel and
embroidery had been always nigh to death, began to
grow fat and rosy, to crow and laugh as it had never
done before, and kick its little legs sturdily about
under their bit of raw skin covering. Mother Nature
had taken the child home, and was breathing new
lusty life into it, out of the bare ground and open
sky, the sun and wind, and the breasts of tlrese her
children; but its father saw in the change only
another inexplicable miracle of God. Nor does he
seem to have seen that it was the child who had
been a protection and shield to the whole crew and
saved them through this their most perilous strait.

We can imagine what the journey on foot along
the bleak coast in winter, through tribe after tribe
of hostile savages, must have been to delicately
nurtured men and women, naked but for a piece of
raw deerskin, and utterly without food save for the
few nauseous berries or offal rejected by the Indians.
In their ignorance of the coast they wandered farther
and farther out of their way into those morasses which
an old writer calls "the refuge of all unclean birds
and the breeding-fields of all reptiles." Once a tidal
wave swept down into a vast marsh where they had
built their fire, and air and ground slowly darkened
with the swarming living creatures, whirring, creep
ing about them through the night, and uttering gloomy,
dissonant cries. Many of these strange companions
and some savages found their way to the hill of oyster-
shells where the crew fled, and remained there for the
two dciys and nights in which the flood lasted.

Our baby accepted all fellow-travellers cheerfully;

232 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

made them welcome, indeed. Savage or slave or
beast were his friends alike, his laugh and outstretched
hands were ready for them all. The aged man, too,
Dickenson tells us, remained hopeful and calm, even
when the slow-coming touch of death had begun to
chill and stiffen him, and in the presence of the can
nibals assuring his companions cheerfully of his faith
that they would yet reach home in safety. Even in
that strange, forced halt, when Mary Dickenson could
do nothing but stand still and watch the sea closing
about them, creeping up and up like a visible death,
the old man's prayers and the baby's laugh must have
kept the thought of her far home near and warm to
her.

They escaped the sea to fall into worse dangers.
Disease was added to starvation. One by one strong
men dropped exhausted by the way, and were left
unburied, while the others crept feebly on; stout
Jonathan Dickenson taking as his charge the old man,
now almost a helpless burden. Mary, who, under
neath her gentle, timid ways, seems to have had a
gallant heart in her little body, carried her baby to
the last, until the milk in her breast was quite dried
and her eyes grew blind, and she too fell one day
beside the poor negress who, with her unborn child, lay
frozen and dead, saying that she was tired, and that
the time had come for her too to go. Dickenson
lifted her and struggled on.

The child was taken by the negroes and sailors.
These coarse, famished men, often fighting like wild
animals with each other, staggering under weakness
and bodily pain, carried the heavy baby, never com-

A FADED LEAF OF HISTORY 233

plaining of its weight, thinking, it may be, of some
child of their own whom they would never see or
touch again.

We can understand better the mystery of that Divine
Childhood that was once in the world, when we hear
how these poor slaves, unasked, gave of their dying
strength to this child; how, in tribes through which
no white man had ever travelled alive, it was passed
from one savage mother to the other, tenderly handled,
nursed at their breasts; how a gentler, kindlier spirit
seemed to come from the presence of the baby and its
mother to the crew; so that, while at first they had
cursed and fought their way along, they grew at the
last helpful and tender with each other, often going
back, when to go back was death, for the comrade
who dropped by the way, and bringing him on until
they too lay down, and were at rest together.

It was through the baby that deliverance came to
them at last. The story that a white woman and a
beautiful child had been wandering all winter through
the deadly swamps was carried from one tribe to
another until it reached the Spanish fort at St. Augus
tine. One day, therefore, when near their last extrem
ity, they " saw a Perre-augoe approaching by sea filled
with soldiers, bearing a letter signifying the governor
of St. Augustine's greatt Care for our Preservation,
of what ISTation soever we were." The journey, how
ever, had to be made on foot ; and it was more than
two weeks before Dickenson, the old man, Mary and
the child, and the last of the crew, reached St.
Augustine.

"We came thereto," he says, "about two hours

234 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

before Night, and were directed to the governor's
house, where we were led up a pair of stairs, at the
Head whereof stood the governor, who ordered my
Wife to be conducted to his Wife's Apartment."

There is something in the picture of poor Mary,
after her months of starvation and nakedness, coming
into a lady's chamber again, "where was a Fire and
Bath and Cloathes, " which has a curious pathos in it
to a woman.

Robert Barrow and Dickenson were given clothes,
and a plentiful supper set before them.

St. Augustine was then a collection of a few old
houses grouped about the fort; only a garrison, in
fact, half supported by the king of Spain and half by
the Church of Rome. Its three hundred male inhabi
tants were either soldiers or priests, dependent for
supplies of money, clothing, or bread upon Havana;
and as the famine had lasted for two years, and it was
then three since a vessel had reached them from any
place whatever, their poverty was extreme. They
were all, too, the "false Catholicks and hireling
Priests" whom, beyond all others, Dickenson dis
trusted and hated. Yet the grim Quaker's hand
seems to tremble as he writes down the record of their
exceeding kindness; of how they welcomed them,
looking, as they did, like naked furious beasts, and
cared for them as if they were their brothers. The
governor of the fort clothed the crew warmly, and out
of his .own great penury fed them abundantly. He
was a reserved and silent man, with a grave courtesy
and odd gentle care for the xwoman and child that
make him quite real to us. Dickenson does not even

A FADED LEAF OF HISTORY 235

give his name. Yet it is worth much to us to know
that a brother of us all lived on that solitary Florida
coast two centuries ago, whether he was pagan, Prot
estant, or priest.

When they had rested for some time, the governor
furnished canoes and an escort to take them to Caro
lina,, — a costly outfit in those days, — whereupon
Dickenson, stating that he was a man of substance,
insisted upon returning some of the charges to which
the governor and people had been put as soon as he
reached Carolina. But the Spaniard smiled and
refused the offer, saying whatever he did was done for
God's sake. When the day came that they must go,
"he walked down to see us embark, and taking our
Farewel, he embraced some of us, and wished us well
saying that We should forget him when we got amongst
our own nation; and I also added that If we forgot
him, God would not forget him, and thus we parted."

The mischievous boy, John Hilliard, was found to
have hidden in the woods until the crew were gone,
and remained ever after in the garrison with the grave
Spaniards, with whom he was a favorite.

The voyage to Carolina occupied the month of
December, being made in open canoes, which kept
close to the shore, the crew disembarking and en
camping each night. Dickenson tells with open-eyed
wonder how the Spaniards kept their holiday of
Christmas in the open boat and through a driving
northeast storm ; praying, and then tinkling a piece of
iron for music, and singing, and also begging gifts
from the Indians, who begged from them in their
turn ; and what one gave to the other, that they gave

236 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

back again. Our baby at least, let us hope, had
Christmas feeling enough to understand the laughing
and hymn-singing in the face of the storm.

At the lonely little hamlet of Charleston (a few
farms cut out of the edge of the wilderness) the
adventurers were received with eagerness; even the
Spanish escort were exalted into heroes, and enter
tained and rewarded by the gentlemen of the town.
Here too Dickenson and Kirle sent back generous
gifts to the soldiers of St. Augustine, and a token of
remembrance to their friend, the governor. After two
months' halt, "on the eighteenth of the first month,
called March," they embarked for Pennsylvania, and
on a bright cold morning in April came in sight of
their new home of Philadelphia. The river was gay
with a dozen sail, and as many brightly painted
Indian pirogues darting here and there; a ledge of
green banks rose from the water's edge dark with
gigantic hemlocks, and pierced with the caves in which
many of the settlers yet lived; while between the
bank and the forest were one or two streets of mud-
huts and of low hipped-roofed stone houses sparkling
with mica, among which gray-coated, silent Friends
went up and down.

The stern Quaker had come to his own people
again; the very sun had a familiar home look for
the first time in his journey. We can believe that
he rejoiced in his own protesting way; gave thanks
that he had escaped the judgments of God, and closed
his righteous gates thereafter on aught that was alien
or savage.

The aged man rejoiced in a different way ; for being

A FADED LEAF OF HISTORY 237

carried carefully to the shore by many friends, they
knowing that he was soon to leave them, he " put out
his hand, ready to embrace them in much love, and
in a tender frame of spirit, saying gladly that the
Lord had answered his desire, and brought him home
to lay his bones among them." From the windows of
this dusky library, I can see the spot now, where, after
his long journey, he rested for a happy day or two,
looking upon the dear familiar faces and waving trees
and the sunny April sky, and then gladly bade them
farewell and passed out of sight.

Mary had come at last to the pleasant home that
had been waiting so long for her, and there, no doubt,
she nursed her baby, and clothed him in soft fooleries
again, and, let us hope, out of the fulness of her soul,
not only prayed, but, Quaker as she wras, sang idle,
joyous songs, when her husband was out of hearing.

But the baby, who knew nothing of the judgments
of God, and who could neither pray nor sing, only
had learned in these desperate straits to grow strong
in the touch of sun and wind, and to hold out its
arms to friend or foe, slave or savage, sure of a
welcome, and so came closer to God than any of
them all.

Jonathan Dickenson became a power in the new
principality; there are vague traditions of his strict
rule as mayor, his stately equipages and vast estates.
Xo doubt, if I chose to search among the old musty
records, I could find the history of his son. But I do
not choose; I wrill not believe that he ever grew to
be a man, or died.

He will always be to us simply a baby; a live,

238 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

laughing baby, sent by his Master to the desolate
places of the earth with the old message of love
and universal brotherhood to His children; and I
like to believe too, that as he lay in the arms of his
savage foster-mothers, taking life from their life,
Christ so took him into His own arms and blessed
him.

THE YAEES OF THE BLACK MOUNTAINS

A TRUE STORY

D FOKT!"

The shackly little train jolted into the middle
of an unploughed field and stopped. The railway was
at an end. A group of Northern summer-tourists,
with satchels and water-proofs in shawl-straps, came
out of the car and looked about them. It was but a
few years after the war, and the South was unexplored
ground to them. They had fallen together at Kicli-
mond, and by the time they had reached this out-of-
the-way corner of North Carolina were the best of
boon companions, and wondered why they had never
found each other out in the world before. Yet,
according to American habit, it was a mere chance
whether the acquaintance strengthened into lifelong
friendship or ended with a nod in the next five
minutes.

It bade fair just now to take the latter turn.

Nesbitt, who had been in consultation with two men
who were ploughing at the side of the station, came
hurrying up: "Civilization stops here, it appears.
Thirty miles7 staging to Asheville, and after that carts
and mules. The mails come, like the weather, at tho

239

240 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

will of Providence. I think I shall explore no farther.
When does your train go back, conductor? "

"The scenery disappoints me/' said Miss Cook,
bridging her nose with her eye-glasses. " It lacks the
element of grandeur."

"You'll find it lacking in more than that beyond,"
said a Detroit man who had come down to speculate
in lumber. "Nothing but mountains, and balsam
timber as spongy as punk. A snake couldn't get his
living out of ten acres of it."

Across the field was a two-roomed wooden house,
over which a huge board was mounted whereon was
scrawled with tar, "Dinner and BAB-BOOM." They
all went, stumbling over the lumpy meadow, toward
it. Miss Cook, who was always good-humored except
on aesthetic questions, carried the baby's satchel with
her own.

"Shall you go on?" she asked the baby's mother.
"The conductor says the mountains are inaccessible
to women."

" Of course. Why, he has slept every night since
we came on to high land."

" I doubt very much whether the cloud-effects will
be as good as in the White Mountains. The sky is
too warm." This was said thoughtfully.

" He has one stomach-tooth almost through. The
balsam-air will be such a tonic! We'll go up if it is
on foot, won't we, Charley?" And she buried her
face in the roll of blanket.

There was a fine odor of burnt beans and whiskey
in the hot little parlor of the house, with its ragged
horsehair chairs and a fly-blown print of the " Death

THE TARES OF THE BLACK MOUNTAINS 241

of Robert E. Lee " on the wall. On the other side of
the hall was the bar-room, where a couple of red-faced
Majors in homespun trousers and shirts were treating
the conductor. It was a domestic-looking bar-room
after all, in spite of red noses and whiskey: there
were one or two geraniums in the window, and a big
gray cat lay asleep beside them on the sill.

One of the Majors came to Baby's mother in the
parlor. " There is a rocking-chair in the — the oppo
site apartment," he said, "and the air will be better
there for the child. A very fine child, madam! very
fine, indeed ! "

She said yes, it was, and followed him. He gave
Baby a sprig of geranium, bowed and went out, while
the other men began to discuss a Methodist camp-
meeting, and the barkeeper shoved a newspaper over
his bottles and worked anxiously at his daybook.
The other passengers all went to dinner, but Xesbitt
was back at her side in five minutes.

"I'm glad you stayed here," he said. "There is a
bare wooden table set in a shed out yonder, and a
stove alongside where the cooking goes on. You
would not have wanted to taste food for a month if
you had seen the fat pork and corn-bread which they
are shovelling down with iron forks. Now, if I
thought — if we wrere going to rough it in the moun
tains — camp-fire, venison, trout cooked by ourselves,
and all that sort of thing, I'd be with you. But this
civilized beastliness I don't like — never did. I'll
take this train back, and strike the trunk-line at
Charlotte, and try Texas for my summer holiday. I
must be off at once."

242 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

" Good-bye, then, Mr. Nesbitt. I am sorry you are
not going: you've been so kind to Charley."

" Not at all. Good-bye, and God bless you, little
chap!" stopping to put his ringer in the baby's thin
hand. He was quite sure the little woman in black
would never bring her child back from the mountains.

"I'm glad he's gone," said Miss Cook, coming in
from the shed. " It's absurd, the row American men
make about their eating away from home. They
want Delmonico's table set at every railway-station."

"You will go up into the mountains, then?"

"Yes. I've only three weeks' vacation, and I can
get farther from my usual rut, both as to scenery and
people, here than anywhere else. I've been writing
on political economy lately, and my brain needs com
plete change of idea. You know how it is yourself. "

"No, I — " She unlocked her satchel, and as she
took out Baby's powder looked furtively at Miss
Cook. This tight little person, buckled snugly into
a waterproof suit, her delicate face set off by a brown
hat and feather, talking political economy and slang
in a breath, was a new specimen of human nature to
her.

She gave the powder, and then the two women went
out and deposited themselves and their wraps in a red
stage which waited at the door. A fat, jolly-faced
woman, proprietor of the shed and cooking-stove, ran
out with a bottle of warm milk for the child, the
Carolinian majors and barkeeper took off their hats,
the Detroit man nodded with his on his head, and
with a crack of the whip the stage rolled away with
them. It lurched on its leather springs, and luffed

THE YARES OF THE BLACK MOUNTAINS 243

and righted precisely like a ship in a chopping sea,
and threw them forward against each other and back
into dusty depths of curled hair, until even the baby
laughed aloud.

Miss Cook took out her notebook and pencil, but
found it impossible to write. " There is nothing to
make note of, either," she said after an hour or two.
" It is the loneliest entrance to a mountain-region I
ever saw. These glassless huts we see now and then,
the ruins of cabins, make it all the more forlorn. I
saw a woman ploughing with an ox just now on the
hillside, where it was so steep I thought woman,
plough, and ox would roll down together. — Is there no
business, no stir of any sort, in this country?" she
called sharply to the driver, who looked in at the
window at that minute.

" I don't know," he said leisurely. " Come to think
on't, it's powerful quiet ginerally."

" No mining — mills? "

" Thar war mica-mines. But ther given over. An'
thar war a railroad. But that's given over too. I
was a-goin' to ask you ladies ef you'd wish to git out
an' see whar the traveller was murdered last May, up
the stream a bit. I kin show you jest whar the blood
is yet; which, they do say, was discovered by the wild
dogs a-gnawin' at the ground."

The baby's mother held it closer, with her lips
unusually pale. "Xo, thank you," she said cheer
fully. "Probably we can see it as we come back."

"Well, jest as you please," he replied, gathering
up the reins with a discontented air. " Thar's been
no murder in the mountings for five years, an' 'tisri't
likely there'll be another."

244 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

A few miles farther on lie stopped to water his
horses at a hill-spring. " Thar's a house yonder, ef
you ladies like to rest an hour/' he said, nodding
benignantly.

"But the mail? — you carry the mail?"

"Oh, the mail won't trouble itself," taking out Ids
pipe and filling it. "That thar child needs rest, I
reckon."

The two women hurried up the stony field to the
large log hut, where the mistress and a dozen black-
haired children stood waiting for them.

"Something to eat?" cried Miss Cook. "Yes, in
deed, my good soul; and the sooner the better.
Finely-cut face, that," sketching it rapidly while the
hostess hurried in and out. " Gallic. These moun
taineers were all originally either French Huguenots
or Germans. She would be picturesque, under a Nor
man peasant's coif and red umbrella, but in a dirty
calico wrapper — bah ! "

The house also was dirty and bare, but the table
was set with fried chicken, rice, honey, and delicious
butter.

"And how — how much are we to pay for all this? "
said Miss Cook before sitting down.

"If ten cents each would not be too much?" hesi
tated the woman.

Miss Cook nodded : her very portemonnaie gave a
click of delight in her pocket. " I heard that these
people were miserably poor ! " she muttered raptur
ously. " Don't look so shocked. If you earned your
bread by your brains, as I do, you'd want as much
bread for a penny as possible."

THE TARES OF THE BLACK MOUNTAINS 245

The sky began to darken before they rose from the
table, and, looking out through the cut in the wall
which served for a window, they saw that the rain
was already falling heavily. A girl of sixteen, who
had been spinning in the corner, drew her wheel in
front of the window: the square of light threw her
delicately lined face and heavy yellow hair into relief.
She watched the baby with friendly smiles as she
spun, giving it a bit of white wool to hold.

" What a queer tribe we have fallen among! " said
Miss Cook in scarcely lowered tones. "I never saw a
spinning-wheel before, except Gretchen's in Faust,
and there is a great hand-loom. Why, it was only
Tuesday I crossed Desbrosses Terry, and I am already
two centuries back from New York. Very incurious,
too, do you observe? The women don't even glance
at the shape of our hats, and nobody has asked us a
question as to our business here. People who live in
the mountains or by the sea generally lack the vulgar
curiosity of the ordinary country farmer."

" Do they? I did not know. These are the kindest
people / ever met," said the little woman in black
with unwonted emphasis.

" Oh, they expect to make something out of you.
Travellers are the rarest of game in this region, I
imagine," observed Miss Cook carelessly, and then
stopped abruptly with a qualm of conscience, remark
ing for the first time the widow's cap which her com
panion wore. These people had perhaps been quicker
than she in guessing the story of the little woman —
that the child, dying as it seemed, was all that was
left to her, and that this journey to the balsam moun
tains was the last desperate hope for its life.

246 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

She looked with a fresh interest at the thin, anxious
face, the shabby black clothes, and then out of the
window to where the high peaks of the Black Range
were dimly visible like cones of sepia on the gray
horizon. She had read a paper in some magazine on
the inhospitable region yonder, walled by the clouds.
It was " almost unexplored, although so near the sea
board cities " ; the " haunt of beasts of prey " ; the
natives were "but little raised above the condition of
Digger Indians." All this had whetted Miss Cook's
appetite. She was tired of New York and New
Yorkers, and of the daily grinding them up into news
paper correspondence wherewith to earn her bread.
To become an explorer, to adventure into the lairs of
bears and wolves, at so cheap a cost as an excursion
ticket over the Air-line Railroad, was a rare chance
for her. As it rained now, she gathered her skirts
up from the dirty floor and confided some of these
thoughts to her companion, who only said absently,
"She did not know. Doctor Beasly — perhaps Miss
Cook had heard of Doctor Beasly? — had said Char
ley must have mountain air, and that the balsams
were tonics in themselves. She did not suppose the
Diggers or animals would hurt her."

The truth was, the little woman had been fighting
Death long and vainly over a sick-bed. She knew
his terrors there well enough: she had learned to
follow his creeping, remorseless fingers on clammy
skin and wasted body, and to hear his coming foot
steps in the flagging beats of a pulse. She had that
dry, sapless, submissive look which a woman gains
in long nursing — a woman that nurses a patient

THE TARES OF THE BLACK MOUNTAINS 247

who holds part of her own life and is carrying it with
him, step by step, into the grave. The grave had
closed over this woman's dead, and all that lie had
taken with him from her: even to herself she did not
dare to speak of him as yet. The puny little boy in
her arms was the only real thing in life to her. There
was a chance in these mountains of keeping him — a
bare chance. As for wild beasts or wild people, she
had thought of them no more than the shadows on the
road which passed Avith every wind.

The rain beat more heavily on the roof : the driver
presented himself at the door, dripping. "Ef we
don't go on, night' 11 catch us before we make Alex
ander's," he said. "Give me that little feller under
my coat. I'll kerry him to the stage."

Miss Cook shivered in the chilly wind that rushed
through the open door. " Who would believe that the
streets in New York were broiling at 105° this min
ute?"

"That baby's not wrapped warm enough for a night
like this," said the woman of the house, and forthwith
dragged out of a wooden box a red flannel petticoat,
ragged but clean, and pinned it snugly about him.

" She'll charge you a pretty price for it," whispered
Miss Cook; "and it's only a rag."

"No, no," laughed the woman, when the widow
drew out her portemonnaie. "Joe kin bring it back
some day. That's all right."

"You seem as touched by that as though it were
some great sacrifice," said Miss Cook tartly after they
were settled again in the stage.

"It was all she had." Adding after a pause, "I

248 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

have been living in New York for five years. My
baby was born there, and — and I had trouble. But
we came strangers, and were always strangers. I
knew nobody but the doctor. I came to look upon
the milkman and baker who stopped at the door as
friends. People are in such a hurry there. They
have no time to be friendly.'7

The stage tossed and jolted, the rain peltod against
the windows. Miss Cook snored and wakened with
jumps, and the baby slept tranquilly. There was a
certain purity in the cold damp air that eased his
breathing, and the red petticoat was snug and warm.
The touch of it seemed to warm his mother too. The
kind little act of giving it was something new to her.
It seemed as if in the North she too had been in a
driving hurry of work since her birth, and had never
had time to be friendly. If life here was barbarous,
it was at ease, unmoving, kindly. She could take
time to breathe.

It was late in the night when the stage began to
rattle over the cobble-stoned streets of the little
hill-village of Asheville. It drew up in front of an
inn with wooden porches sheltered by great trees:
there were lights burning inside, and glimpses of sup
per waiting, and a steam of frying chicken and coffee
pervading the storm. One or two men hurried out
from the office with umbrellas, and a pretty white-
aproned young girl welcomed them at the door.

"Supper is ready," she said. "Yours shall be sent
to your room, madam. We have had a fire kindled
there on account of the baby."

"Why, how could you know Charley was coming?"
cried the widow breathlessly.

THE TARES OF THE BLACK MOUNTAINS 249

" Oh, a week ago, madam. While you stopped at
Morganton. The conductor of the Salisbury train
sent on a note, and afterward the clergyman at Lin-
ville. We have been warned to take good care of
you," smiling brightly.

The baby's mother said nothing until she was seated
in her room before a wood-fire which crackled and
blazed cheerfully. The baby lay on her lap, its face
red with heat and comfort.

" Since I left Richmond one conductor has passed
me on to another," she said solemnly to Miss Cook.
"The baby was ill at Linville, and the train was
stopped for an hour, and the ladies of the village came
to help me. And now these people. It is just as
though I were coming among old friends."

"Pshaw! They think you have money. These
Southerners are impoverished by the war, and they
have an idea that every Northern traveller is over
loaded with wealth, and is fair game."

"The war? I had forgotten that. One would for
give them if they were churlish and bitter."

The woman was a weak creature evidently, and
inclined to drivel. Miss Cook went off to bed, first
jotting down in her notebook some of the young girl's
queer mistakes in accent, and a joke on her yellow
dress and red ribbons. They would be useful here
after in summing up her estimate of the people. The
girl and the widow meantime had grown into good
friends in undressing the boy together. When his
mother lay down at last beside him the firelight threw
a bright glow over the bed, and the pretty young face
came again to the door to nod good-night.

250 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

It was only an inn, and outside a strange country
and strange people surrounded her. But she could
not rid herself of the impression that she had come
home to her own friends.

The sun rose in a blue dappled sky, but before he
was fairly above the bank of wet clouds Miss Cook
was out, notebook in hand. She had sketched the
outline of the mountains that walled in the table-land
on which the village stood; had felt the tears rise to
her eyes as the purple shadow about Mount Pisgah
flamed into sudden splendor (for her tears and emo
tions responded quickly to a beautiful sight or sound) ;
she had discovered the grassy public square in which
a cow grazed and a woman was leisurely driving a
steer that drew a cart ; she had visited four empori
ums of trade — little low-ceiled rooms which fronted
on the square, walled with calicoes and barrels of
sugar, and hung overhead with brown crockery and
tin cups; she had helped two mountaineers trade
their bag of flour for shoes; had talked to the negro
women milking in the sheds, to the gallant Confeder
ate colonel hoeing his corn in a field, to a hunter
bringing in a lot of peltry from the Smoky Range.
As they talked she portioned out the facts as material
for a letter in the Herald. The quaint decaying
houses, the swarming blacks, the whole drowsy life of
the village set high in the chilled sunshine and bound
by its glittering belt of rivers and rampart of misty
mountain -heights, were sketched in a sharp, effective
bit of word-painting in her mind.

She trotted back to the Eagle Hotel to put it on
paper; then to breakfast; then off again to look up
schools, churches, and editors.

THE TARES OF THE BLACK MOUNTAINS 251

Late in the afternoon, tramping along a steep hill-
path, she caught sight of two women in a skiff on a
lonely stream below. It was the baby's mother and
the pretty girl from the inn. No human being was in
sight; the low sunlight struck luminous bars of light
between the trunks of the hemlocks into the water
beneath the boat as it swung lazily in the current;
long tangled vines of sweetbrier and the red trumpet-
creeper hung from the trees into the water; the baby
lay sound asleep on a heap of shawls at his mother's
feet, while she dipped the oars gently now and then
to keep in the middle of the stream.

" How lazy you look ! " called Miss Cook. " You
might have been made out of the earth of these sleepy
hills. Here, come ashore. D'ye see the work I've
done?" fluttering a sheaf of notes. " I've just been
at the jail. A den! an outrage on the civilization of
the nineteenth century ! Men have been branded here
since the Avar. Criminals in this State are actually
secured in iron cages like wild beasts! I shall use
that fact effectively in my book on the ' Causes of
the Decadence of the South ' : one chapter shall be
given to 'The Social and Moral Condition of North
Carolina. ' '

" You will need so many facts ! " ejaculated the little
woman, awestruck, yet pityingly. "It will take all
your summer's holiday to gather them up."

Miss Cook laughed with cool superiority: "Why,
child, I have them all now — got them this morning.
Oh, I can evolve the whole state of society from half
a dozen items. I have the faculty of generalizing,
you see. No," folding up her papers decisively,

252 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

"I've done the mountains and mountaineers. Be
tween slavery and want of railroads, humanity has
reached its extremest conditions here. I should not
learn that fact any better if I stayed a week."

"You are not going back?"

" Back? Yes. I go to Georgia to-morrow morning.
This orange I have sucked dry."

Miss Cook posted to the inn and passed the night
in making sketches to illustrate her article from a
bundle of photographic views which she found in
possession of the landlady.

Looking out of the parlor-window next morning,
she saw half the inmates of the house gathered about
an ox-cart in which sat the widow and Charley.
A couple of sacks of flour lay at her feet, and a
middle-aged man, a giant as to height and build,
dressed in butternut homespun, cracked his long whip
at the flies.

"Where can she be going?" asked Miss Cook of a
young woman from Georgia whom she had been pump
ing dry of facts all the morning. The Georgian wore
a yellow dress with a coarse frill about her swarthy
neck: she sat at the piano and played "Love's Chid-
ings."

The man, she said, was Jonathan Yare, a hunter
in the Black Mountains. Her brother had told her
his terrible history. Her brother had once penetrated
into the mountains as far as the hut where the Yares
lived, some thirty miles from here. Beyond that
there were no human beings : the mountains were
given up to wild beasts. As for these Yares, they
had lived in the wilderness for three generations,
and, by all accounts, like the beasts.

THE TARES OF THE BLACK MOUNTAINS 253

Miss Cook rushed out : political economist though
she might be, she had a gossip's keen enjoyment in
a piece of bad news. "Do you know these Yares?"
she whispered. " They have a terrible history : they
live like wild beasts."

The little woman's color left her. Her head filled
instantly with visions of the Ku-Klux. "I never
asked what they were, " she gasped. " I only wanted
to take Charley among the balsams."

The man looked back at this moment, and seeing
that the valise and box and baby's bottle of milk were
in the cart, cracked his long whip over the near ox,
and the next moment the widow and her baby were
jolting up the rocky hill-street.

She felt a sudden spasm of fear. When Death
laid his hand on her child she had taken him up
and fled to these mountains without a second thought,
as the women in the times of the apostles carried
their dead and dying to be cured by miraculous aid.
But she was a woman like the rest of us, used to jog
along the conventional paths to church, to market,
to the shops; her only quarrels with the departed
David had been about his unorthodox habits in
business and politics; and she never could be easy
until she was sure that her neighbors liked her new
bonnet. What would her neighbors — any neighbor
— David himself, have said at seeing her in league
with this desperate character, going into frightful
solitudes?

The man spoke to her once or twice, but she
answered with an inaudible little chirp, after which
he fell into silence, neither whistling nor speaking
to his oxen, as she noticed.

254 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

She could not help observing how unusually clear
the light about her was from the thinness of the air,
although the sun was out of sight in a covered, fore
boding sky, and black, ragged fragments of cloud from
some approaching thunderstorm were driven now and
then across the horizon. The road, if road you chose
to call it, crept along beside the little crystal-clear
Swannanoa River, and persisted in staying beside it,
sliding over hills of boulders, fording rushing moun
tain-streams and dank, snaky swamps, digging its way
along the side of sheer precipices, rather than desert
its companion. The baby's mother suddenly became
conscious that the river was a companion to whom
she had been talking and listening for an hour or two.
It was narrow, deep, and clear as the air above it : it
flowed with a low, soothing sound in which there came
to her somehow an assurance of security and good
will.

Multitudes of trailing vines hedged in the river ; they
covered the banks, and threw long, clutching branches
into the water; they crept out on projecting trees on
either side and leaped across the stream, ridging it with
arches of wreaths and floating tendrils. There were
the dark, waving plumes of the American ivy, the red
cornucopias of the trumpet-creeper, morning-glories
with great white blossoms, the passion-flower trailing
its mysterious purple emblems through the mud be
neath the oxen's feet, — all creeping or turning in
some way toward the river.

Surely there Avere airy affections, subtle friendli
nesses, among these dumb living creatures! They
all seemed alive to her, though she was a prosaic

THE YARES OF THE BLACK MOUNTAINS 255

woman, who had read little beyond her cooked-book
and Bible. It was as though she had come unbidden
into Nature's household and interrupted the inmates
talking together. The Carolina rose stretched in
masses for miles along the road — the very earth
seejned to blush with it : here and there a late rhodo
dendron hung out its scarlet banner. The tupelo
thrust its white fingers out of the shadow like a
maiden's hand, and threw out into the air the very
fragrance of the lilies-of-the-valley which used to
grow in the garden she made when she was a little
girl. The silence was absolute, except when a pheas
ant rose with a whirr or a mocking-bird sounded its
melancholy defiant call in the depths of the forest.
Long habit of grief had left her heart tender and its
senses keen: these things, which were but game or
specimens for the naturalist, were God's creatures to
her, and came close to her. Charley woke, and look
ing up saw her smiling down on him with warm cheeks.
She did not know the name of a plant or tree or bird,
but she felt the friendliness and welcome of the hills,
just as she used to be comforted and lifted nearer to
God by distant church music, although she could not
hear a word of the hymn.

Leaving the road, they entered deep silent gorges,
and followed the bed of mountain-streams through
canons walled in by gray frowning rocks, over which
the sky bent more darkly each moment. At last there
was a break in the gorge. About her was a world of
gigantic mountains. There was no sign of human
habitation — nothing but interminable forests that
climbed the heights, and, failing half-way, left them
bare to pierce the clouds.

256 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

She had started on this journey with a vague notion
of reaching some higher land where balsam trees grew,
the air about which would be wholesome for Charley.
She had penetrated to the highest summits of the
Appalachian Range, the nursery or breeding-place
from which descend the Blue Ridge, the Alleghanies,
the Nantahela — all the great mountain-bulwarks that
wall the continent on its eastern coast. The mighty
peaks rose into the sky beyond her sight, while the
gathering storm-clouds clung to their sides, surging*
and eddying with the wind. How petty and short
lived was wind or storm! She looked up at the
fixed, awful heights, forgetting even the child on her
knee. It was as if God had taken her into one of the
secret places where He dwelt apart.

She came to herself suddenly, finding that the cart
had stopped and the driver was standing beside her
examining the baby's milk.

"I reckon," he said, "it's sour, and the little chap's
hungry. I'll get some fresh, an' you kin look at the
mountings."

He went into the laurel, and with a peculiar whistle
brought some of the wild cattle to him, and proceeded
to milk one of the cows, returning with a cupful of
foaming warm milk. Now, one of the Ku-Klux
would hardly go to milking cows, she thought; and
there was something in the man's steady grave eyes
that looked as if he too understood the meaning of the
"mountings." They jogged on in silence.

Half an hour later the clouds closed about them and
the rain fell heavily. The cart was dragged through
the bed of a mountain-stream, and then stopped in

THE TARES OF THE BLACK MOUNTAINS 257

front of a low log house built into a ledge of the moun
tain. A room on either side opened into a passage,
through which a wagon might be driven, and where
the rain and wind swept unchecked. An old woman
stood in it looking up the stream. Her gray hair
hung about her sallow face, her dress was a dirty
calico, her feet were bare. Behind her was the
kitchen, a large forlorn space scarcely enclosed by the
log and mud walls. A pig ran unnoticed past her
into it. Another woman, tall and gaunt, was fording
the stream : she was dripping wet, and carried a spade.
Surely, thought the baby's mother, human nature
could reach no lower depths of squalor and ignorance
than these.

"Mother," said Jonathan Yare, "here is a friend
that has come with her baby to stay with us a while."

The old woman turned and instantly held out her
arms for the child. "Come in — come to the fire,"
she said cordially. " I am glad Jonathan brought you
to us."

If a princess had been so taken by surprise, her
courtly breeding could not have stood her in better
stead.

She took the baby and its mother into a snug
boarded room with half a dozen pictures from the illus
trated papers on the walls, and a fire of great logs
smouldering on the hearth. When they were warmed
and dry they went into the kitchen. Supper was
ready, and two or three six-foot mountaineers stood
by the table.

" We are waiting for father, " said the woman who
had carried the spade. Both men and women had

258 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

peculiar low voices. One could never grow used to
hearing such gentle tones from these great sons of
Anak. At the same moment an old man of eighty,
whose gigantic build dwarfed all of his sons, came
into the doorway. His eyes were closed, and he
groped with his staff. The widow, as soon as she
saw his face, went directly up to him and took his
hand.

"My name is Denby," she said. "I brought my
baby here to be cured. He is all I have, sir."

"You did right to come." She guided his hand to
Charley's, and he felt his skin, muscles, and pulse,
asking questions with shrewder insight than any
physician had done. Then he led her to the table.
"Boys, Mistress Denby will like to sit beside me, I
think," he said.

She had an odd feeling that she had been adopted
by some ancient knight, although the old man beside
her wore patched trousers that left his hairy ankles
and feet bare. Before the meal was over another
strange impression deepened on her. She saw that
these people were clothed and fed as the very poorest
poor; she doubted whether one of them could read
or write ; they talked little, and only of the corn, or
the ox that had gone lame ; but she could not rid her
self of the conviction that she had now, as never in
her life, come into the best of good company. Nature
does not always ennoble her familiars. Country-
people usually are just as uneasy and vulgar in their
cheap and ignorant efforts at display or fashion as
townsmen. But these mountaineers were absolutely
unconscious that such things were. A man was a

THE YARES OF THE BLACK MOUNTAINS 259

man to them — a woman, a woman. They had never
perhaps heard either estimated by their money or
house or clothes. The Yares were, in fact, a family
born with exceptionally strong intellects and clean,
fine instincts : they had been left to develop both in
utter solitude; and the result was the grave self-
control of Indians and a truthful directness of
thought and speech which grew out of the great calm
^Nature about them as did the trees and the flowing
water.

These were the first human beings whom the widow
had ever met between whom and herself there came
absolutely no bar of accident — no circumstance of
social position or clothes or education: they were the
first who could go straight to something in her beneath
all these things. She soon forgot (what they had
never known) how poor they were in all these acci
dents.

Charley and his mother were at once adopted into
the family. At night, when the child was asleep,
the old hunter always sat with her and his wife beside
the fire, telling stories of bear-hunts, of fights with
panthers, of the mysterious Kattlesnake Valley, near
which no hunter ventures. He had been born in this
house, and passed the whole of his eighty years in the
mountains of the Black Range. One night, noticing
the scars which his encounters with bears had left on
him, she said, "It is no wonder that the townspeople
in Asheville talked to me of the 'terrible history of
the Yares.'"

The old man smiled quietly, but did not answer.
When he had gone to bed his wife said with great

260 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

feeling, " It was not their fights with wolves and bears
that turned the people of Aslieville agen. the name of
my boys and their father, They were the ony men
anigh hyar that stood out fur the Union from first to
last. They couldn't turn agen the old flag, you see,
Mistress Denby."

" They should have gone into the Federal army and
helped to free the slaves," cried the widow with rising
color, for she had been a violent abolitionist in her
day.

"Waal, we never put much vally on the blacks,
that's the truth. We couldn't argy or jedge whether
slavery war wholesomest or not. It was out of our
sight. My lads, bein' known as extraordinar' strong
men an' powerful bear-fighters, hed two or three offers
to join Kirk's Loyal Rangers in Tennessee. But they
couldn't shed the blood of their old neighbors."

"Then they fought on neither side? Their old
neighbors most probably called them cowards."

"Nobody would say that of the Yares," the woman
said simply. "But when they wouldn't go into the
Confederit army, they was driv out — four of them,
Jonathan first — from under this roof, an' for five
years they lay out on the mountings. It began this
a-way: Some of the Union troops, they came up to
the Unaka Range, and found the house whar the
Grangers lived — hunters like us. The soldiers fol
lowed the two Granger lads who was in the rebel army,
an' had slipped home on furlough to see their mother.
Waal, they shot the lads, catchin' them out in the
barnyard, which was to be expected, p'raps; an' when
their ole father came runnin' out they killed him too.

THE TARES OF THE BLACK MOUNTAINS 261

His wife, seem' that, hid the baby (as they called him,
though he was nigh onto eight year old) under a loose
board of the floor. But he, gettin' scart, runs out and
calls, 'Gentlemen, I surrender/ jest like a man. He
fell with nine bullets in his breast. His mother sees
it all. There never was a woman so interrupted as
that pore woman that day. She comes up to us,
travellin' night an' day, talkin' continual under her
breath of the lads and her ole man's gray hair lyin' in
a pool of blood. She's never lied her right mind sence.
When Jonathan heard that from her, he said, 'Mother,
not even for the Union will I join in sech work as this
agen my friends.' He knowed ony the few folks on
the mountings, but he keered for them as if they war
his brothers. Yet they turned agen him at the
warn in' of a day, and hunted him as if he was a wild
beast. He's forgot that now. But his sister, she's
never forgot it for him agen them. Jonathan's trouble
made a different woman of Nancy."

But Mrs. Denby felt but little interest in the
gaunt, silent Nancy.

" You say they hunted your sons through the moun
tains?"

" Jest as if they war wolves. But the boys knowed
the mountings. Thars hundreds of caves and gullies
thar whar no man ever ventered but them. Three
times a week Nancy went — she war a young girl then :
she went up into Old Craggy and the Black miles and
miles to app'inted places to kerry pervisions. I've
seen her git out of her bed to go (fur she lied her
aches and pains like other wimmen), and take that
pack on her back, when the gorges war sheeted with

262 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

snow and ice, an' ef she missed her footin' no man
on arth could know whar she died."

" But five years of idleness for your sons — "

The old woman's high features flushed. "You
don't understan7, Mistress Denby," she said calmly.
"My sons' work in them years was to pertect an'
guide the rebel deserters home through the mountings
— people at the North don't know, likely, what
crowds of them thar war — an' to bring the Union
prisoners escaped from Salisbury and Andersonville
safe to the Federal lines in Tennessee. One of the
boys would be to Salisbury in disguise, an' the others
would take them from him and run them into the
mountings, an' keep 'em thar, bringin' them hyar
when they could at night fur a meal's good victuals.
About midnight they used to come. Nancy an' me,
we'd hear a stone flung into the river yonder — seemed
es ef I'd never stop listenin' fur that stone — an'
we'd find them pore starved critters standin' in the
dark outside with Jonathan. In ten minutes we'd
have supper ready — keepin' the fire up every night
— an' they'd eat an' sleep, an' be off before dawn.
Hundreds of them hev slep' in this very room, sayin'
it was as ef they'd come back to their homes out of
hell. They looked as ef they'd been thar, raally."

"In this room?" Mrs. Denby stood up trembling.
Her husband had been in Salisbury at the same time
as Albert Richardson, and had escaped. He might
have slept in this very bed where his child lay.
These people might have saved him from death. But
Mrs. Yare did not notice her agitation.

" Thar was one winter when Major Gee sent guards

THE TARES OF THE BLACK MOUNTAINS 263

from Salisbury to watch the mounting-passes, 'spe
cially about this house, knowin' my boys' work.
Then they couldn't come anigh: thar was nigh a year
I couldn't hear from them ef they were alive or dead.
I'd hear shots, an' the guards 'ud tell me it Avas
'another damned refugee gone ' - — p'raps one of my
boys. I'd set by that door all night, lookin7 up to
the clouds coverin' the mounting, wonderin' ef my
lads was safe an' well up thar or lyin' dead an'
unburied. I'd think ef I could ony see one of my
lads for jest once — jest once ! " The firelight flashed
up over her tall, erect figure. She was standing, and
held her arm over her bony breast as if the old pain
was intolerable even now.

She said quietly after a while, "But I didn't
begrudge them to their work. One night — the
soldiers were jest yonder: you could see the camp-
fire in the fog — thar Avar the stone knockin' in
the stream. I says, 'Xancy, which is it?7 She
says, 'It's Charley's throw. Someut ails Jonathan.'
An' Charley hed come to say his brother war dyin'
in a cave two mile up: they'd kerried him thar. I
found my lad thar, worn to a shadder, an' with some
disease no yerbs could tech. Wall, fur a week we
came an' went to him, past the guard who Avar sent to
shoot him doAvn Avhen found like a dog; an' thar he
Avas lyin' within call, an3 the snoAV an' sleet drift in'
about him. One day Xancy Avas dumb all day — not
a word. I said to father, 'Let her alone: she's
a-studyin' powerful. Let her alone.' 'Mother, J she
says at night, 'I've been thinkin' about Jonathan.
He must hev a house to cover him, or he'll die.'

264 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

'Yes, Nancy, but what house? ' 'I'll show you,' says
she. 'You bide hyar quiet with father. The guard
is used to seein' me come an' go with the cattle.' She
took an axe an' went out, an' didn't come home till
mornin'. In three days she hed cut down logs an'
built a hut, six feet by ten, among the laurels yonder,
haulm' an' liftiii' them logs herself, an' floored it, an'
kivered it with brush, an' brought him to it; an' thar
she stayed an' nursed him. The snow fell heavy an'
hid it. Yes, it seems onpossible for a woman. But
not many's got my Nancy's build," proudly. "One
day, when Jonathan was growin' better, Colonel Bar
ker rode up: he war a Confederit. ' Mrs. Yare,' says
he, 'thar's word come your boys hev been seen hyar-
bouts, an' the home guard's on its way up.' An'
then he tuk to talkin' cattle an.' the like with father,
an' turned his back on me. An' I went out an' give
the signal. An' in ten minutes Nancy came in with
the milk-pail as the guard rode up. I knowed the
boys war safe. Waal, they sarched the laurel for
hours, an' late in the afternoon they came in. 'Colo
nel,' says they, 'look a-here! ' So we went out, an'
thar war the house. 'Who built this? ' says he. 'I
did, ' says Nancy, thinkin' the ownin' to it was death.
The tears stood in his eyes. 'G-od help us all! ' says
he. 'Men, don't touch a log of it.' But they tore it
to the ground when he was gone, an' took Nancy down
to Asheville, an' kep her in the jail thar for a month,
threatenin' to send her to Salisbury ef she'd not tell
whar the boys war. They might hev hung her: of
course she'd not hev told. But it wore her — it wore
her. She'd be a prettier girl now," thoughtfully,

THE YARES OF THE BLACK MOUNTAINS 265

"ony for what she's gone through for her brothers.
Then they arrested father an' took him to Richmond,
to Libby Prison. As soon as ISTancy heard that, she
sent for the commandant of the post.

" ' Give me,' she says, 'a written agreement that my
father shall be released when his four sons come into
Richmond, and let me go. ' So they did it. "

"And the boys went?"

"Of course. They reported themselves at Ashe-
ville, hopin' that would release their father sooner.
But they hed to be forwarded to Salisbury, an' held
thar until he was brought on."

"They were in that prison, there?"

" Yes. But they was well treated, bein' wanted for
soldiers. It was in the last year, when the men war
desertin' and the drafts war of no use. On the fourth
day the lads war brought into the guard-house before
the officers.

"'Mr. Yare, ' says the major very pleasantly, 'I
believe you an' yor brothers are reputed to be onusu-
ally daring men. '

"'That I don't know,' says Jonathan.

"'You hev certainly mistaken the object of the war
and your duty. At any rate, you hev incurred ten
times more risk an' danger in fighting for refugees
than you would have done in the army. We have
determined to overlook all the offences of your family,
and to permit you to bear arms in our service.'

'"I will never bear arms in the Confederit service,'
says Jonathan quietly. You know he's a quiet man,
an' slow.

" A little man, a young captain, standing by, says

266 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

in a heat, 'Bah! Why do you waste words with such
fellows? The best use to make of the whole lot is to
order them out to be shot. '

"'I agree with you, Mac,' says the colonel. 'It's
poor policy, at this stage of the game, to tax the com
missariat and put arms into the hands of unwilling
soldiers. — But ' — then he stopped for a minute — •
'you have no right to answer for your brothers, Yare, '
he said. 'I give you half an hour,' taking out his
watch. 'You can consult together. Such of you as
are willing to go into the ranks can do so at once : the
others — shall be dealt with as Captain Mclntyre sug
gests.'

"They took the lads back into the inside room.
When the half hour was up, all but five minutes, they
saw a company drawn up in a hollow square outside.
They were led out thar, facin' them, an' thar war the
officers. It was a sunshiny, clar day, an' Jonathan
said he couldn't help but think of the mountings an'
his father an' me.

"Charley, he spoke first. 'Jonathan is the oldest,'
he says. 'He will answer for us all.'

'"You will go into the service? ' says the major.

"'No,' said Jonathan, 'we never will.'

" The major made a sign. My lads walked down
and the soldiers took aim, deliberate. The major
was lookin' curiously at Jonathan.

" ' This is not cowardice,' said he. ' Why will you
not go into the ranks? I believe, in my soul, you
are a Union man! '

" Jonathan says he looked quick at the guns levelled
at him, and couldn't keep his breath from comin'
hard.

THE TARES OF THE BLACK MOUNTAINS 267

"'Yes,' he says out loud. 'By God, I am a Union
man ! '

" Captain Mcliityre pushed his sword down with a
clatter and turned away. 'I never saw pluck like that
before,' he said.

"'Corporal,' said the major, 'take these men back
to jail.'

"Two weeks after that Lee surrendered, an7 my
lads came home."

The women talked often in this way. Mrs. Denby
urged them again and again to come out of their soli
tude to the Xorth. " There are hundreds of men
there," she said, "of influence and distinction whose
lives your sons have saved at the peril of their own.
Here they will always pass their days in hard drudg
ery and surrounded by danger."

The mother shook her head, but it was Nancy who
answered in her gentle, pathetic voice: "The Yares
hev lived on the Old Black for four generations, Mis
tress Denby. It wouldn't do to kerry us down into
towns. It must be powerful lonesome in them flat
countries, with nothing but people about you. The
mountings is always company, you see."

The little townswoman tried to picture to herself
these mountaineers actually in the houses of the men
whom they had rescued from death — these slow-
speaking giants clad in cheap Bowery clothes, igno
rant of art, music, books, bric-a-brac, politics. She
understood that they would be lonesome, and that

268 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

the mountains and they were company for each
other.

She lived in their hut all summer. Her baby grew
strong and rosy, and the mountains gave to her also
of their good-will and comfort.

MARCIA

OKE winter morning a few years ago the mail
brought me a roll of MS. (with one stamp too
many, as if to bribe the post to care for so precious a
thing) and a letter. Every publisher, editor, or even
the obscurest of writers receives such packages so
often as to know them at a glance. Half a dozen
poems or a story — a blur of sunsets, duchesses,
violets, bad French, and worse English; not a solid
grain of common-sense, not a hint of reality or even
of possibility, in the whole of it. The letter — truth
in every word : formal, hard, practical, and the mean
ing of it a woman's cry for bread for her hungry
children.

Each woman who writes such a letter fancies that
she is the first, that its pathos will move hard-hearted
editors, and that the extent of her need will supply
the lack of wit, wisdom, or even grammar in her
verses or story. Such appeals pour in literally by the
thousand every year to every publishing office. The
sickly daughter of a poor family; the wife of a
drunken husband; a widow; children that must be
fed and clothed. What is the critic's honest opinion

269

270 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

of her work? how much will it bring in dollars and
cents? etc., etc.

I did not open the letter that day. When we reach
middle age we have learned, through rough experi
ences, how many tragedies there are in our street or
under our own roof which will be none the better for
our handling, and are apt, selfishly, to try to escape
the hearing of them.

This letter, however, when I opened it next morn
ing, proved to be not of a tragical sort. The writer
was "not dependent on her pen for support"; she
" had vowed herself to literature " ; she was " resolved
to assist in the Progress of humanity." Scarcely had
I laid down the letter when I was told that she waited
below to see me. The card she sent up was a bit of
the fly-leaf of a book, cut oblong with scissors, and
the name — Miss Barr — written in imitation of engrav
ing. Her back was toward me when I came down,
and I had time to read the same sham stylishness
written all over her thin little person. The sleazy
black silk was looped in the prevailing fashion, a
sweeping white plume drooped from the cheap hat,
and on her hands were washed cotton gloves.

Instead of the wizened features of the " dead beat "
which I expected, she turned on me a child's face : an
ugly face, I believe other women called it, but one
of the most innocent and honest in the world. Her
brown eyes met mine eagerly, full of a joyous good-
fellowship for everything and everybody alive. She
poured out her story, too, in a light-hearted way, and
in the lowest, friendliest of voices. To see the girl
was to be her ally. " People will do anything for me
• — but publish my manuscripts," she said.

MA EC I A 271

She came from Mississippi; had been the only white
child on a poor plantation on the banks of the Yazoo.
" I have only had such teaching as my mother could
give : she had but two years with a governess. We
had no books nor newspapers, except an occasional
copy of a magazine sent to us by friends in the North."
Her mother was the one central figure in the world to
her then. In our after-intercourse she talked of her
continually. " She is a little woman — less than I ;
but she has one of the finest minds in the world," she
would cry. " The sight of anything beautiful or the
sound of music sways her as the wind does a reed.
But she never was twenty miles from the plantation;
she has read nothing, knows nothing. My father
thinks women are like mares — only useful to bring
forth children. My mother's children all died in
babyhood but me. There she has lived all her life,
with the swamp on one side and the forest of live-oak
on the other : nothing to do, nothing to think of. Oh,
it was frightful! With a mind like hers, any woman
would go mad, with that eternal forest and swamp,
and the graves of her dead babies just in sight! She
rubbed snuff a good deal to quiet herself, but of late
years she has taken opium."

"And you?"

" I left her. I hoped to do something for us both.
My mind is not of as high order as hers, but it is very
different from that of most women. I shall succeed
some day," in the most matter-of-fact tones. "As
soon as I knew that I was a poet I determined to come
to Philadelphia and go straight to real publishers and
real editors. In my country nobody had ever seen a

272 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

man who had written a book. Ever since I came here
I find how hard it is to find out anything about the
business of authorship. Medicine, or law, or black-
smithing — everybody knows the workings of those
trades, but people with pens in their hands keep the
secret of their craft like Freemasons," laughing.

"You came alone?"

" Quite alone. I hired a little room over a baker's
shop in Pine Street. They are a very decent couple,
the baker and his wife. I board myself, and send out
my manuscripts. They always come back to me."

" Where do you send them ? "

"Oh, everywhere. I can show you printed forms
of rejection from every magazine and literary news
paper in the country," opening and shutting again a
black satchel on her lap. "I have written three

novels, and sent them to the s7 and s'. They

sent them back as unavailable. But they never read
them. I trick them this a-way: I put a loose blue
thread between the third and fourth pages of the
manuscript, and it is always there when it comes
back." Her voice broke a little, but she winked her
brown eyes and laughed bravely.

"How long have you been here?"

"Three years."

"Impossible! You are but a child."

" I am twenty. I had an article published once in
a Sunday paper, " producing a slip about two inches
long.

Three years, and only that little grain of success!
She had supported herself meanwhile, as I learned
afterward, by sewing men's socks for a firm in Ger-
mantown.

MARC I A 273

"You are ready to give up now?"

"No; not if it were ten years instead of three."

Yet I can swear there was not a drop of New Eng
land blood in her little body. One was certain,
against all reason, that she would succeed. When
even such puny ceatures as this take the world by
the throat in that fashion, they are sure to conquer it.

Her books and poems must, I think, have seemed
unique to any editor. The spelling was atrocious;
the errors of grammar in every line beyond remedy.
The lowest pupil in our public schools would have
detected her ignorance on the first page. There was,
too, in all that she said or wrote an occasional gross
indecency, such as a child might show : her life on the
plantation explained it. Like Juliet she spoke the
language of her nurse. But even Shakspeare's nurse
and Juliet would not be allowed nowadays to chatter
at will in the pages of a family magazine.

But in all her ignorance, mistakes, and weaknesses
there was no trace of imitation. She plagiarized
nobody. There was none of the usual talk of count
esses, heather, larks, or emotions of which she knew
nothing. She painted over and over again her own
home on the Yazoo : the hot still sunshine, the silence
of noon, the swamp, the slimy living things in the
stagnant ponds, the semi-tropical forest, the house
and negro quarters, with all their dirt and dreary
monotony. It was a picture which remained in the
mind strong and vivid as one of Gerome's deserts or
Hardy's moors.

There could be but one kind of advice to give her
— to put away pen and ink, and for three years at

274 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

least devote herself to hard study. She would, of
course, have none of such counsel. The popular belief
in the wings of genius, which can carry it over hard
work and all such obstacles as ignorance of grammar
or even the spelling-book, found in her a marked
example. Work was for commonplace talent, not for
those whose veins were full of the divine ichor.

Meanwhile she went on sewing socks, and sending
off her great yellow envelopes, with stamps to bring
them back.

" Stamps and paper count up so fast ! " she said,
with a laugh, into which had grown a pitiful quaver.
She would take not a penny of aid. "I shall not
starve. When the time has come for me to know that
I have failed, I can go back to my own country and
live like the other women there."

Meanwhile her case very nearly reached starvation.
I remember few things more pathetic than the damp,
forlorn little figure in a shabby water-proof, black
satchel in hand, which used to come to our door
through the snows and drenching rains that winter.
Her shoes were broken, and her hands shrivelled blue
with cold. But a plated gilt chain or a scarlet ribbon
used to flaunt somewhere over the meagre, scant pov
erty. Sometimes she brought news with her. She
had work given her — to collect a column of jokes for
a Sunday paper, by which she made three dollars a
week. But she lost it from trying to insert her own
matter, which could not well be reckoned as funny
sayings. One day she came flushed with excitement.
Somebody had taken her through the Academy of
Design and a private gallery of engravings then on

MARC I A 275

exhibition. She had a keen, just eye for form and
color, and the feeling of a true artist for both.

''That is what I could have done," she said, after
keeping silence a long while. " But what chance had
I? I never even saw a picture at home, except those
which were cut out of illustrated papers. There
seemed to be no wray for me but to write."

It was suggested to her that she might find the
other way even now. Painting, designing, wood-
engraving, were expressions for a woman's mind, even
though, like her own, it was " one of the finest in the
world."

She did not smile. "It is too late," she said.
" I will go on as I have begun. But it is a pity my
mother and I had not known of such things."

After that her light-hearted courage seemed to give
way. She persevered, but it was with dogged, indom
itable resolution, and little hope.

One day in the spring I was summoned to see a
visitor on business. I found a tall, lank young man
stalking up and down the room, the most noticeable
point about him the shock of red hair and whisker
falling over his neck and greasy coat collar. The face
was that of an ignorant, small-minded man. But it
was candid and not sensual.

He came straight toward me. "Is Marcia Barr
here?"

"Xo; she has been gone for an hour."

He damned his luck in a white heat of rage, which
must, I thought, have required some time to kindle.
Indeed, I found he had been pacing up and down the
street half the morning, having seen her come in.
She had gone out by a side door.

276 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

" I caught a glimpse of her half a mile off. I have
come to Philadelphia three times this year to find her.
Good God! how rank poor she is! Where does she
live?"

I could not tell him, as Marcia had long ago left the
baker's, and changed her quarters every month.

"And I reckon I'll have to wait until she comes
hyah again. Tell her it's Zack Biron, the overseer's
son, on — on business."

He was not long in unveiling his business, which
any woman would soon have guessed. He had come
to bring Marcia home and marry her. He had always
"wanted her," and the old colonel, her father, had
promised he should marry her provided he could bring
her back from her mad flight. The colonel was dead,
and he was now "runniii' the plantation for ole
madam. She's no better than a walkin' corpse, with
that damned drug she chews. She can't keep still
now : walks, walks incessant about the place, with her
eyes set an' the skin clingin' to her bones. I couldn't
'a borne it, I ashuah you, but for the sake of fmdin'
Marcia."

Two months passed, in which he haunted the house.
But Marcia did not come. She had begun to frequent
newspaper offices, and occasionally was given a trifling
bit of work by the managers of the reporting corps —
a description of the dresses at a Mannerchor ball to
write, or a puff of some coming play, etc. She came
at last to tell me of what she had done.

"It is miserable work. I would rather sew the
heels of stockings; but the stocking looms have
stopped, and I must live a little longer, at any rate.

MARCIA 277

I think I have something to say, if people only would
hear it."

I told her of Biron and his chase for her.

" I saw him outside the window the last time I was
here. That was the reason I went out by the side
street. I knew he was looking for me. You will
not tell him I have been here? "

" But, Marcia, the man seems honest and kindly — "

"If he found me," in the same quiet tone, "he
would marry me and take me back to the plantation."

"And you are not ready to give up? "

"Xo, I will not give up. I shall get into the right
groove at last," with the infectious little laugh which
nobody could resist.

The water-proof cloak was worn down quite into the
cotton by this time, and the straw hat had been
darned around the ragged edge. But there was a
cheap red rose in it. Her cheek-bones showed high,
and her eyes shone out of black hollows.

"No, I have no cough, and I don't need medicine,"
she said, irritably, when questioned. "I have had
plenty of offers of help. But I'd rather steal than
take alms." She rose hastily and buttoned her cloak.

" This man Biron waits only a word to come to you.
He is faithful as a dog."

She nodded carelessly. Biron, or a return to her
old home, held no part in her world, it was plain to
see.

I was out of the city for several months. A few
weeks after my return I saw in the evening paper one
day, in the usual list of crimes and casualties, an
item headed " Pitiable Case. — A young woman named

278 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

Burr was arrested yesterday on charge of theft, and
taken to the Central Station. About eleven o'clock
the other women in the cell where she was confined
perceiving that she lay on a bench breathing in a
stertorous manner, summoned Lieutenant Pardy, who
found life to be almost extinct. A physician was
called, who discovered that the woman had swallowed
some poisonous drug. With her first breath of return
ing consciousness she protested her innocence of the
charge. She appears to have been in an extreme state
of want. But little hope is entertained of her recov
ery. Miss Burr is favorably known, we believe, as
a writer of some ability for the daily press."

In spite of the difference of name, it must be Marcia.

When we reached the Central Station we were told
that her discharge was already procured. She had
friends who knew what wires to work. In the outer
room were half a dozen young men, reporters, a fore
man of a printing-room, and one or two women, dra
matic or musical critics. There is as eager an esprit
de corps among that class of journalists as among actors.
They were all talking loudly, and zealous in defence
of "Little Marty," as they called her, whom they
declared to be " a dunce so far as head went, but pure
and guileless as a child."

"I knew she was devilishly hard up," said one,
" but never suspected she was starving. She would
not borrow a dollar, she had that pride in her. "

Marcia was still in the cell, lying on an iron
stretcher. The Mississippian, Biron, was with her,
kneeling on the floor in his shirt sleeves, chafing her
hand. He had taken off his coat to wrap about her.

MA EC I A 279

"I've a good Quaker nurse and a room ready for
her at the Continental the minute she can be moved/17
he whispered. " Look a-here ! " turning down the
poor bit of lace and red ribbon at her throat, his big
hairy hand shaking. "Them bones is a'most through
the skin! The doctor says it's hunger — hunger!
And 1 was eatin' three solid meals a day — like a
beast!"

Hunger had almost done its work. There was but
a feeble flicker of life left in the emaciated little body ;
not enough to know or speak to us when at last she
opened her dull eyes.

"Xone o' them folks need consarn themselves any
furder about her," said Biron savagely. " She'll come
home to her own now, thank God, and be done with
rubbishy book-makers. Mrs. Biron will live like a
lady."

Two or three weeks later, the most splendid of
hired phaetons stopped at my door, and Mr. and Mrs.
Biron sent up their cards. Mr. Biron was glowing
with happiness. It asserted itself offensively some
how in the very jingling of his watch chain and tie of
his cravat.

"We return immediately to the plantation," he said,
grandiloquently. " I reckon largely on the effect of
her native air in restorin' Mrs. Biron to health."

Marcia was magnificent in silk and plumes, the
costliest that her owner's money could buy. Her
little face was pale, however, and she looked nobody
in the eye.

"We leave for the South to-morrow," she said,
calmly, "and I shall not return to Philadelphia. I
have, no wish to return."

280 SILHOUETTES OF AMERICAN LIFE

" Shall I send you books or papers, Marcia? "

"No, I thank you; nothing."

When they rose to go, her husband said, "Mrs.
Biron has some — rubbish she wishes to leave with
you. Hyah!" calling out of the window. "You
nigger, bring that thah bag ! "

It was the old black satchel. Marcia took it in her
white-gloved hands, half opened it, shut it quickly,
came up closer.

"These are my manuscripts," she said. "Will you
burn them for me? All; do not leave a line, a word.
I could not do it."

I took the satchel, and they departed. Mr. Biron
was vehement in his protestations of friendship and
invitations to visit the plantation.

But Marcia did not say a word, even of farewell.

Typography by J. S. Gushing & Co., Boston, U.S.A.
Presswork by Berwick & Smith, Boston, U.S.A.

£ 6 4 t; 7 5

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